


And At Last I Am Free

by die_traumerei



Series: The Bucky Barnes Blues [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon-Typical Injuries, Established Relationship, Geographical Isolation, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Identity Issues, Isolation, M/M, Needles, Sex, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2018-08-07 05:31:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 51,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7702552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_traumerei/pseuds/die_traumerei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Picks up immediately after Take Apart Your Bones and Put 'Em Back Together ends. Bucky is healed in body, and thought he had a plan for his life, but nothing ever runs so smoothly. This story is about him coming into himself, the mental healing, and how he takes control of his own life, wholly and fully, at last.</p><p>Also, kissin'. Lots of kissing. (Kissing Steve, naturally.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to part two!
> 
> Much like Take Apart Your Bones, I'll try to update once or twice a week, largely depending on how much I'm able to get written at a time.
> 
> And, as always, thank you so so much for your comments, kudos, and the discussions you bring up! It really makes my writing better, and I can only beg your understanding if I take a few days to reply to comments.

The flight to New York went by quickly, and Bucky was only a little startled when they landed and he stood up, cautiously still free. No one stopped him; not when Nat and Sam got Steve (who was marble-white but breathing) out of the Quinjet and into the Tower proper, and not when he started following them, watching Steve's chest rise and fall.

He trailed after the stretcher for as long as he could, but was blocked by Nat right before another elevator, and he watched Sam keep going, picking up speed. Steve lay eerily still, and Bucky watched him until the elevator doors closed.

“You have just enough time to shower and get changed,” Nat said, looking him up and down. “I'll show you where Steve's apartment is. You can borrow his clothes.”

Bucky followed her quietly, unwilling to speak. Asking questions wouldn't do any good. He did as ordered, because what else was there to do? Throw a fit? Demand to stay with Steve? He had had whole _months_ of comfort and good food and friends and his lover; more than he deserved.

Bucky showered Steve's blood off of himself and got changed into soft sweatpants, a t-shirt and a hoodie, despite the warm weather. Lucky they were close enough in shoe size; he could borrow a pair of sneakers when Nat told him to find shoes too.

He glanced at the shield, but didn't bother to pick it up when she lead him back to the Quinjet and they took off.

“Any news on Steve?” he asked tentatively. At least she'd let him ride up front with her.

“No,” she said.

They flew quietly. They went west, Bucky noticed, curving slightly north.

“I'm taking you to a safehouse,” Nat said, somewhere over the Great Lakes. “Only the Avengers know where it is. You'll be safe there. It's basic, but I think you'll like it.” She turned and looked at him for a moment. “I'll try to get your clothes and other things to you in the next few days. After that...someone will come when they can, with more supplies. You have enough food for a year already there.”

“What will happen to me?” Bucky asked.

“Nothing.” Her eyes were hard. “You'll stay there until it's safe for you to leave. You can...rest. It's a peaceful place.” She was quiet for a minute. “I swear, Bucky, you'll be free soon. You'll be able to choose your own life. We'll make sure there aren't any more Brady's, no one who would want to hurt you. We'll clear your name and keep you safe.”

Bucky thought of a lot of things to say, but didn't say any of them.

They started to descend a little after full darkness fell. Bucky didn't see the tiny cabin until they were nearly on top of it. It was by a stand of trees, solar panels just visible on the roof.

Nat set down nearby, and they left the Quinjet. There wasn't a lock on the door when she let them in. “Welcome to the Little House in the Middle of Fucking Nowhere,” she said, and turned on the single overhead light.

The interior was unfinished wood, a small rectangular space. There were windows on either side of the door, and two more directly across from them on the far wall. There was a little kitchen area against the wall to his left; it was mostly a stretch of counter (more unfinished wood) with shelves above it and a long sink with a pump handle. A tiny refrigerator was shoved under the counter at the very end, next to a door. There was a wood-burning stove in the middle of the room, and a small table with two chairs next to it. A half-full bookcase ran the length of the room below the windows on the far wall, and a simple metal-framed bed was shoved against the wall to his right. A door on that wall mirrored the one on the wall to his left.

“Pantry on your left, compost toilet on your right. There's a big tub in the pantry for bathing,” Nat said shortly. “Solar'll keep the light on and the fridge running as long as you don't open the door too often. There's plenty of wood already chopped outside. Your nearest neighbor is a hundred miles away. You're in the middle of protected land here; if you see someone who isn't an Avenger, try to kill them before they kill you.”

Bucky gave her an exhausted look.

“I'm serious,” she said quietly. “Bucky, promise me you'll fight. Tell me I can tell Steve you'll fight.”

Bucky bowed his head. Of course he would. What else had he ever done. “I'll fight.”

“If it helps, you probably won't need to. No one's found this place in fifty years of being a bolthole.”

Bucky surveyed his tiny kingdom. At least it was quiet; just the sound of the wind here. “Where am I?”

“In the United States,” she said, and smiled prettily at him.

Bucky nodded, and stepped into the room. “Thank you,” he said, clearly dismissing her.

She nodded when he turned to look at her pointedly. “I'll be back with things for you as soon as I can. Is there...do you have any messages you want me to carry?”

Bucky shook his head. What, was he supposed to be dramatic and tell her to tell Steve that Bucky loved him? Steve knew. Steve knew that better than he knew anything else. Right now – the feel of Steve's blood still on his hands, the memory of Sarah screaming and her leg a mess, the look in the agent's eyes when Bucky took his life – he wanted to be alone with all of that.

Nat turned and closed the door behind her. He heard the Quinjet take off a few moments later, and then the hollow sound of wind.

Bucky opened the windows to help air the place out a little, and sat on the bed. It was late? Probably? The sky, what he could see of it, was pure black and spangled thickly with stars, even moreso than upstate New York. He reckoned he was in the Dakotas, or maybe Wyoming. He reckoned it didn't matter, as he lay down and listened to the air move around the cabin, and shifted a little to look out the windows and see the bright wash of the Milky Way across the sky.

 

Bucky woke suddenly the next morning, to a fresh wind and the sound of rain. The storm had only just begun, and Bucky got up quickly to shut the windows. There were already little raindrop-marks on the floor, but nothing had gotten wet.

There was no confusing this place with his home of the last few months; no way he'd wake up and reach for Steve's warm body. (And, to be fair, his boyfriend the actually insane early-riser was usually up and out by the time Bucky woke up, but sometimes he came back to bed and was there to wrap around, teasing Bucky about being lazy and shutting up when he got kisses.) There was no chance he'd wander through long corridors to a cheerful kitchen, where Lisle would have hot coffee waiting.

(Bucky pushed away these thoughts. He could sit with his better ghosts later; now they just made his heart hurt.)

With only the clothes on his back, there was no need to get dressed. It was warm in the little cabin, but Bucky put the hoodie on anyway, because it was Steve's, and he liked being a little too warm. (Hah. Take that Tati, with your self-soothing techniqes!) Hiding in the thick fabric, he opened the fridge quickly to find it empty. The pump handle squeaked a little, but cold, clear water gushed out after a few pumps.

The table was an old wooden card table, plain and with a scratched-up surface; the chairs were mismatched but sturdy enough. Bucky checked the inside of the wood-burning oven; it was clean enough to eat off of.

Important things first – take stock of food. The pantry had the promised tub, and the shelves that ran the width of the house were full of canned food. Bucky found a stash of coffee and long-life milk, but opted to keep exploring further before he had to start a fire and boil water. (He did admit to a feeling of deep relief, that at least he'd have coffee.) There was a hole in the floor at the far end of the pantry, and he grabbed the nearby flashlight and went down into the cellar. It was unfinished stone, and Bucky had to duck his head to fit, but the place seemed snug and dry. More food, and a tiny workshop at one end, with basic hand tools, some two-by-fours, and nails and screws. At least he could effect minor repairs as needed. And this place wasn't a million miles from how he'd grown up – and was even closer to a lot of the places he remembered Steve living. A single room with no hot water was far from unknown.

Bucky climbed back up to the main house, briefly grateful that he'd healed quickly. Being bedridden seemed a lifetime ago, now. He breathed in deeply, hit with the memory of Lisle helping him sit up right after he'd woken and the way Steve had been so gentle, helping him into a wheelchair just so he could go outside.

Bucky held onto a shelf, and let the memory go through him; these people who had loved him. They were still alive because they had to be. They were still out there in the world, and they still loved him, even as he'd taken Lisle's home away, as Steve had been horribly injured for him.

Bucky went back into the main room and glanced at the bookshelves; he could go through them more, later. His literacy wasn't great but at least he could practice here, he guessed. For a prison, (because this was a prison, no matter how kindly meant), it wasn't so bad.

He'd slept on top of the bed and the quilt just needed a little straightening. The linens were worn but clean; the same could be said of the mattress and two pillows. There were extra linens and another two quilts in a box under the bed.

The composting toilet had instructions but seemed easy enough to take care of, and there was a big box of wood shavings and dried leaves next to it. He'd have to remember to keep that pretty well full.

The tour of his little home complete, Bucky found a saucepan on the shelves above the sink and filled it with a few spoonfuls of coffee grounds and cold water. He pulled dry wood from a little box by the front door, and found a stash of tinder and matches there as well. The dry, aged hardwood caught fire quickly, and he soon had coffee boiling away. It smelled good, a warm and a little burnt and like some of his best memories, and he was glad he'd done this.

That and a can of beans made for an acceptable breakfast, and so began Bucky's first day of who knew how many in this new life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rhythm of new days.

No one came for the rest of the day, not that Bucky expected them.

The landscape outside his little cabin was wild and rocky, with sparse grass and knobbly trees that created a windbreak to the front of the cabin. The rear looked out onto a huge, raw-looking rock formation thrusting out of the earth. He'd gone out and walked around the cabin a little, and the sky was wide, a deep, perfect blue. It was beautiful, and entirely desolate. Despite himself, he loved the landscape almost immediately, for all that it was nearly the opposite of the cozy welcome of the Berkshires. He would have been desperately lonely in those cozy old hills, the welcoming forests and the soft breezes. Here – this was a place to be alone.

He ventured to the other side of the stand of trees, and saw more of the same landscape to the horizon. There wasn't a road, a power line, _anything_ to interrupt the rough, desolate rocks. Not even a creek; nothing to follow to a settlement. Interesting.

Bucky went back to the little cabin and opened the windows again, now that the rain had stopped, and let the summer winds blow through. He settled down to examine the books on the shelves, and started sorting them; he could use one set of shelves as a place to keep clothes, once he had some. About half of the books were falling-apart paperbacks featuring government agents doing various improbable things. Bucky shelved those quickly after he had opened one to a random page and started reading in the middle of a violent standoff.

The rest of the books were largely nonfiction. He started with a set of Foxfire books that seemed to have instructions on how to make, raise, butcher or otherwise be entirely self-sufficient in any circumstance.

He squinted and the words swam, and Bucky set the books aside. He could practice reading with them, and maybe glean some useful information too. There was also a backwoods cookbook, and some books on mostly military history that made him think of Steve.

Bucky set those aside as well. Maybe when thinking about Steve didn't make his heart hurt.

There were a handful of mysteries; old books with tiny type, but Bucky thought they might be worth the work, once he got a little better at reading. His eyes were aching, but he set those on the to-read shelf. A couple of Georgette Heyer romances were very quickly added to the to-read shelf; they made him think of his mother and sister, and he _did_ smile, remembering them trading the short novels back and forth.

Bucky opened the last book, and drew in a sharp, pleased breath. It was nearly empty; the scores for some game or another were written on the first two pages, but the rest of it was blank, and there was a pen tucked in the binding of the book. Bucky carefully shelved everything else, but took the notebook – blessedly fat – to the little table.

He sat down, and in his shaky, rough hand, wrote the date. Under it, he wrote:

_I met Steve when I was eight years old, and he was seven_ . _He looked as young as my sister, though, and she was four._

Bucky's hand cramped up, and his handwriting was barely legible by the end, but he wrote the whole of his memory of how he'd met Steve, all those years upon years ago. It was midday when he finished, and he shook the ache out of his hand, but there it was. The memory was written down, and it would always be there. He'd ask for other notebooks, to remember other things in, but this one – this would be for his best memories.

Bucky explored the pantry a little more when it came time for lunch, and was quietly pleased to find a good stash of spices. Lisle had started to teach him about the revolution in seasoning that had happened since the forties, and he was  _extremely_ happy to not have to give it up. Some dried basil and red pepper, tomato paste and passata, and he was making a passable tomato sauce on the stovetop, while pasta cooked in the other saucepan. Bucky mixed the two together and ate right out of the pan while the stove cooled, and made a mental note to start planning meals that didn't involve lighting a fire in the middle of summer. He had sweated through his shirt, and took it off, hanging it over a windowsill to dry. The vast silence outside his window did not beg to be filled; indeed he didn't  _want_ to fill it with whistling, or talking, or singing. It was enough to have the domestic sounds of eating, then cleaning the pots out and drying them, and working the pump handle a few more times to get enough water to at least rinse himself off from the waist up. 

He sat down to the notebook again after lunch, but struggled even to write his family's names. His mother and father, giving them the best life they could. His baby sisters, all of them annoying and precious, all gone now, but all with full lives. And their children, and  _their_ children, one of them Tati with her bright smile and bounciness and total ruthlessness when it came to taking care of him.

And the way, if she had been there, she would have hugged him and kissed the top of his head, and told him to cry himself out for his family because it was okay to miss them. So Bucky put his head down in his arms, and cried himself out, because he missed his mother and his father, and his baby sisters, and he'd missed their whole lives and their deaths too.

 

The next morning, Bucky got dressed (quietly hoping that Nat, or  _anyone,_ would come with fresh clothes; rinsing his drawers out in the sink the night before hadn't really helped matters) and stared at the pantry, praying for anything but beans for breakfast. He made more coffee than usual; it promised to be a punishingly hot day, and if he could avoid lighting the stove the next morning, that couldn't be a bad thing. Poking around a bag of chocolate chips and pondering just what constituted a healthy breakfast, Bucky found a hidden box of granola bars and actually whooped out loud.

This was his life now; he'd write about the beauties of Vienna (observed while he waited in a sniper's nest for a target) another time. Slightly stale granola bars, delicious and not requiring the application of heat, were the best thing yet.

After his victory breakfast, Bucky went outside again, curious to explore the landscape. He was careful not to get out of sight of the cabin, and mostly memorized nearby landmarks. For all of Nat's assurances, no place was safe, and it was safest to have somewhere to run to. Possibly he should start stashing food offsite – with real luck, he might even find a cave, or something similar. Bucky walked a spiral out from the cabin, taking quiet joy in stretching his legs, and the total absence of any weakness to the leg that been so badly broken. It wasn't quite the casual walks he'd taken before, but it was  good just the same . 

He spiraled back when the cabin was just on the edge of visible, paying more attention to the land around him this time. No obvious caves were visible, but there was a big rock that was shaped like a perfect rectangle, and there was a bare patch of dirt in front of it – worth exploring, perhaps, but also worth setting as a landmark, as it was tall enough to be seen for at least a mile around. Bucky was content with the reach of his exploration that day, though, and there was something comforting about going back to his little cabin, his lunch of leftover chili and icy cold well-water, and the return to the notebook.

He struggled to write down his sisters names, but got through it, and thought his handwriting might have improved. There was a memory he wanted to write down badly, but the words wouldn't quite come, and his hand was shaking as he put the book aside. The story of how his sister had stolen his Christmas candy and he'd driven her practically insane by not telling  _anyone_ when the sweets were suddenly missing would have to wait for another day. Irritating but – well, he had time. 

Bucky knelt by the bookshelf and picked out the cookbook, and settled down with that first. The text was big and clear, and he found he could read it relatively easily. He started a mental list of ingredients to request, if such a thing was possible, and was daydreaming about eggs when he heard something in the air change.

He had been foolish; there was no silence here. There were insects and birds and the wind through the rocks, but the insects fell silent and so did the birds and the wind changed. Someone was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to post! I think I have a good idea of Bucky's voice in the story, though, so hopefully I won't be as blocked in the future.

Bucky went and stood in the doorway and waited. He had promised to fight, so he would fight. He was awfully good at killing, after all.

(And Steve, if he was alive, wouldn't want to lose Bucky again. So he would fight.)

He waited in the doorway until the insects started their buzz again, and the wind resumed it's soft summer patterns. He saw a huge bird, a hawk or a raptor or whatever you called that kind of bird (huh, maybe he should ask for field guides, just for fun) soaring above him. It followed a thermal, spiraling beautifully on the invisible lift, and Bucky thought of Sam and Sam's wings, and he hoped Sam was well too.

He had not been distracted by the dancing bird. Natasha was just that good, and he didn't see her until she'd cleared a small rise, not twenty yards from the cabin. He raised his hand in greeting, and she waved back.

She was carrying a huge duffel bag, and wore it lightly, scrambling easily over rocks and grass to arrive at his front door.

“Hello,” he said, speaking aloud, his voice a little odd to his own ears.

“Hi, Bucky,” she said, and pushed past him. “I'm dying for a glass of water.”

“Welcome to my home, Nat,” he said, bemused, and followed her into his little home-slash-prison. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

“You'd think all those history books would have mentioned what a smartarse you were,” she said.

“You'd think _you_ would remember,” he said smugly, and worked the pump, making sure the water she got was fresh and cold and clear; nothing that had been sitting in pipes for _his_ girl.

“I did remember. I just didn't know that you were, y'know. _Bucky_ ,” she explained, and he nodded. He looked pretty different, aside from the fact that he had died decades before they had been lovers.

Bucky waited until she had drained the glass before he opened his mouth to ask. He was pretty sure she wouldn't have just bounced up if Steve was dead, but –

“He's fine,” she said, and he closed his mouth. “Or he will be. It will take time, Bucky.” She smiled a little, sadly. “Like after the Helicarrier. But he's alive, I promise.”

Bucky nodded, and carefully pulled out her chair, and sat down across from her.

“Do you have any messages for him?” she asked softly. “Don't write anything down. But tell me, and I'll tell him.”

Like he was dumb enough to write  _I love you_ and  _I miss you_ and  _Hey so I'm somewhere in the north where we always daydreamed of going can you look up my exact lat-long and tell me?_ “Tell him...I think a lot of that first day in the birch circle.” There, a nice beginning, and a sweet memory. The day they kissed, and loved like they'd always meant to. A second chance, and for once they were smart enough to take it. They'd have a third chance, maybe.

Nat nodded, and didn't ask for clarification. “I got your stuff,” she said, indicating the bag. “Well, I think it's your stuff, from the big house. Yours and Steve's things, anyway.”

Bucky nodded, and bit his lip. “The girls...”

“Are all alive. I'm sorry, Bucky, I don't know any more than that.” She smiled wryly. “Compartmentalization, and all. They're alive, and I promise you, they're safe.”

“I'm holding you do that, darlin',” he said, and swallowed hard. They'd helped him so much, please let them be alive, please let them be happy. Steve could take care of himself, but his girls...

“I promise,” she said. 

“Can you bring other things with you? Can you come back?”

She nodded. “If not me, then another Avenger. We'll be back as often as we can, Bucky.” She smiled at him, a little sadly. “You shouldn't have to be here.”

“It's safer, though.” Bucky sighed. “It is. I know it is.” For the moment, everyone was safe from him; from his presence. “Can you bring me eggs, and cheese, and butter please?”

Nat's eyes softened, and he wasn't sure why. “Bucky, of course. Plenty of all of them. What else?”

“Notebooks,” he said, and touched the cover of the one he'd found. “Big ones, like this. And more pens.”

“I'll get them to you as soon as I can,” she said.

He smiled at her, a little of the old smile that had come back while he was at the big house in the country. “Can you stay for lunch?”

She laughed out loud. “I can, but only just. Thank you.”

They ate together, and Bucky remembered that he did, really, like other people. Or at least other people who were Nat, who was funny and charming and didn't talk about anything important. He would have shattered, if she had.

After lunch she kissed his cheek and he watched her leave, walking straight through the wild landscape until the dip in the land swallowed her from view. So; he was confined, but would have visitors. Could ask for things, and get them. Have clothes and books and good food.

Bucky went back into the cabin, but left the door open, to let the light and air in. He unpacked the big duffel, finding the clothes pretty evenly split between his and Steve's, and gratefully changing into new underwear, a pair of Steve's sweatpants and one of his t-shirts, the fabric soft and clinging. It was exactly unlike getting a hug from Steve, but it was a connection for the moment. He put the rest of the clothes away neatly, and shelved the books Nat had brought –  _Stranger in a Strange Land, We Have Always Lived in the Castle_ and a collection of Cordwainer Smith stories. His reading was painfully slow; this would keep him going for a long time.

Bucky sat down in the afternoon sunlight, and began to write.

_I remember the first time I met Natalia Romanova. She was seventeen, and already deadly._

 

To be fair, it was a little surprising that it had taken this long to start missing the internet. He had quickly started to rely on it back in the big house, familiar enough with modern technology that he could get past his illiteracy pretty quickly. And, of course, Steve had been there, excitedly showing Bucky how to look things up, and how to tell the good references from the bad. Sam and Lisle had set up voice-recognition technology and a screenreader for the days he didn't read well, and he had taken to the stream of information like a duck to water.

But now he was itchy in his skin. Nat had left and he'd cleaned up and written until he had a headache, and it was only mid-afternoon. He wasn't even depressed enough to sleep all day. (That had been Steve and Sam's thing; the days spent in bed, rousing them for meals. He'd been too shy to do much for Sam, guessing that the man wouldn't really appreciate the pain in the ass who'd wrecked his life wandering through his private space, but Bucky had climbed in beside Steve, held him quietly, listened to podcasts and audio books, and gently sat out life a little bit.) The cabin was gleamingly clean, and he'd already set aside supplies for supper. So he left, and started walking, following the spiral he'd mapped out before.

I t wasn't that  Bucky was bored, exactly,  he decided . He was partway through a Heyer novel, and cooking and cleaning  _did_ take  their time. Everything took time, he noted a little wryly,  scrambling over a big rock – his reading and writing were slow and laborious, filling the big tub for a bath took  _forever_ even without having to heat water – the only things Bucky could do quickly were physical. He  spiraled further out this time, using a tall rock as a landmark and getting the lay of the land.  It was more of the same, as far as he could see.  Bucky watched birds and listened to insects and scrambled over rocks and examined scrubby little trees.  They were dense and small, a good source of strong timber, but working the wood would be difficult, and getting a straight run of plank would be...interesting.

So, really,  Bucky had plenty to do, and he was grateful for physical health;  truly he was. Anything was better than the mostly-dead skeleton who had been none-too-gently delivered to SHIELD; hell, this was even better than when he limped along with  a crutch or a walking stick. He just...should be more than this.

Bucky had always been the smart one. And now he wasn't. And he was tired of killing and done with fighting, but would keep doing both. It was the only thing he was worth, anymore.

So he wasn't bored. But he missed the internet; missed the things that had made him feel smart,  and  like he could figure things out. Missed absorbing knowledge: history and science, mostly. Missed the solid week where he and Steve had taken a crash course on 20 th \- and early 21 st -century American history. They had promised to study apart, but kept running one to the other to yell about something amazing they had just learned.

(Steve, like America, would literally never get over Nixon. Bucky had been less surprised.)

He missed easy information, missed being a kid again, fascinated by knowledge. This was a physical world he was living in, this spare landscape and wild things, food to be cooked every day and fires to be built. Bucky's body was perfect, and he tried to appreciate it. It wasn't a prison, really. But God, he missed who he had been becoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thank you for reading and for your comments!
> 
> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, there's a description of Bucky getting a very nasty injection towards the end of this chapter. If needles freak you out, stop reading at "And at least scrubbing the floor was paying off." and pick up again at "If the photo Clint took with his phone didn't somehow 'accidentally' make its way to Steve, Bucky would eat a hat."
> 
> Bucky also skirts some suicidal ideation at times in this chapter, although he's very aware that suicide isn't a viable solution, and isn't comforted or helped by the thoughts.

“Hi, baby,” Steve murmured, and Bucky giggled, turning over and stretching. It got cold at night here, and he was under a light blanket. Steve didn't crawl in with him, but lay on top of it, wrapping it tightly around Bucky's body.

“Stop,” Bucky said, wriggling, but Steve just laughed and kissed him. A press of lips to start with, then their mouths dropping open, tongues, soft openmouthed kisses. The sound of breathing and Steve's warmth pressed against him.

“I missed you,” Bucky whispered into his mouth, and Steve gathered him closer, rolling them so they lay together, Bucky sprawled atop him.

“I missed you too,” Steve whispered back. “I love you so much, Buck.”

“Romantic,” Bucky teased gently, and moaned when Steve kissed him again, then trailed his mouth down to Bucky's throat. “Oh, God. Oh, Stevie, please.”

“Don't I know what you need?” Steve muttered, and Bucky felt him reach down and slip his hand through the folds of the blanket to palm his cock.

“ _Oh_ ,” Bucky gasped, burying his face in the curve of Steve's neck. “Oh, yes, yes, like that. Stevie, yes.”

“Look at you,” Steve marveled. “You're getting' hard for me so fast.”

Bucky whimpered and nodded.  _Christ_ he loved that aching feeling, Steve's hand warm and firm, stroking Bucky's cock the way he liked best. He just had to hold on, had to keep this, give Steve this one thing...

“Shh, baby. Just be in the moment,” Steve soothed, and bit Bucky's throat very lightly. Something about it and the way Steve's hand was on his cock making Bucky groan loudly.

“That's my guy,” Steve said proudly, and Bucky thrust into his hand, his hips pumping harder, his cock still hard, and yes, if he could just get his fucking body to _cooperate_ –

Bucky woke up with a gasp, an orgasm, and the sensation of very sticky sweatpants, in that order. It was, he estimated, his first orgasm (that he could remember) since 1944.

“Well,” he said to the wind. “Motherfucker.”

 

That day, Bucky figured out how to do laundry in the big tub. He found some powdered detergent and an actual, honest-to-God washboard in a corner of the cellar, and managed to get everything reasonably clean and hung on a line he ran across the middle of the room.

He had thought about hanging the line outside, but didn't want to chance it being spotted. After a brief reflection whether he was being paranoid, Bucky figured that Nat had landed the Quinjet some ways away for a reason, and also everyone actually _was_ out to get him. He most likely wasn't really safe even here, but it provided a nice illusion. And he was saf _er_.

(And there was no one around him to be collateral damage. That was the most important part.)

Bucky carefully skidded his mind away from thinking that, if someone just dropped a bomb (not even a big one!) in just the right place, his problems, and everyone else's problems, would be over. Dying didn't help anyway. He'd already died once, and it didn't fix anything.

So he scrubbed the floor, even working the dust and dirt out of the corners, and hoped he was making his mother proud.

 

The next two days slurred together in falling asleep not long after sunset, then rising more or less with the sun. It was easier that way, and it meant he didn't have to use the solar power to keep the lights running – best to keep the fridge going, especially when one day was dark with clouds. The thunderstorm was good, though – it cleared the air, gave him something to watch, and the sound of the rain on the roof was nice. Bucky was pleasantly surprised to learn that there weren't any leaks, and the little cabin stayed snug against the weather. Watching the lightening stab down onto the mountains was exhilarating. Anything that took him out of his mind was exciting.

He wrote more; the day it stormed was an especially good day, and he treated himself to writing down a funny story about the Howlies. After that, still feeling pretty good, he wrote the memory of the first time he managed to have breakfast with everyone else in the big house at the table in the kitchen. They'd had bagels with cream cheese, and huge pots of coffee and Bucky had been drawn into conversation easily, then put to work washing up. (Well, drying. It was easier to do that sitting down and one-handed.)

Bucky wriggled his silver fingers, a glissando on a nonexistent piano. Dexterity was no longer a problem, at least.

The day after the storms, the air changed, and he knew someone was coming. Bucky set a chair just outside the doorway and set a large knife down beside it, and waited for an Avenger to be impressed at his readiness to fight.

“Holy shit, they put a new roof on for you!”

“Hi, Clint,” Bucky said, and smiled, tilting the chair back. 

“Oh, hey Bucky. I got your stuff,” Clint said, nodding to the big duffel he was carrying. “I only dropped it twice, so the eggs should still be okay? I hope?”

Bucky got up to shake Clint's hand and take the bag. “They'll be fine.” He had known Clint for about ten minutes (plus Steve's stories) and was debating letting the poor guy know that Bucky  _knew_ his bumbling idiot act was, you know, an act. More or less. “You want some coffee?”

“God, yes, always,” Clint said, following him into the cabin. “Wow, you cleaned! It looked like a frat house when I was staying here.”

Bucky smiled, and got the fire going a little more, setting his cowboy coffee on to boil. “Not much else to do, y'know?”

“...No?” Clint dropped down into the other chair, grin easy and open. “Oh, important stuff. Steve is awake now, and says hi. And said to tell you to, uh.” Clint pulled out a piece of rice paper. “Tell you to remember the day you guys weeded the garden?” And then he ate the paper.

Bucky grinned – it had been hot and dry and messy, and they'd accidentally pulled up some onions (which were very quickly replanted), and it had  been  fun. They'd put on some music, and m ocked each other, and gone for a swim in the lake when they were done to cool off and try to wash the worst of the dirt away. It had been a wonderful, happy day, and they'd fallen asleep together that night, totally exhausted in the best way. “Thanks for that. Oh, you want anything to eat?”

“Thanks, that would be great,” Clint said, not hiding his surprise. “How're you finding cooking?”

Bucky shrugged. “Old-fashioned, but okay?”

“Is it like when you were a kid?” Clint asked, while Bucky pulled his most successful attempt (to date) at frying-pan cornbread out of fridge and started heating it up on the warm stovetop.

“Nah, we had gas. But my Aunt and Uncle, out in Indiana, they still cooked over coal, so I remember that a little bit.” Bucky shrugged. “It's not a million miles from how it was during the war a lot of the time, and I've got a good cookbook.”

“Man, you are _way_ better at this than I am,” Clint admitted, rubbing the back of his head.

“Eh. I got time to learn,” Bucky said. “You got butter in there, right?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Here.” Clint fished it out of the bag and Bucky buttered their hunks of cornbread lavishly. He gave Clint the plate and took the bowl for himself, then poured the coffee into the one mug and handed it over.

“This is really good,” Clint said, after his first huge bite. “Thanks, by the way.”

Bucky shrugged. “Thanks for hauling stuff all the way out here.”

“Hey, man, we'll try to bring you supplies as often as we can.” Clint brushed buttery crumbs off of his mouth, and looked guilty. “You deserve better than this.”

“There are a lot of people who would argue with that.”

“Yeah, but they're wrong. They are. Bucky...” Clint sighed. “Did Steve ever tell you about me and Loki?”

“Yeah. I'm sorry that happened to you, that was a shit deal,” Bucky said, and smiled. “And I know. But it's not the same, exactly.”

“Um, it's kind of the same, exactly,” Clint pointed out, taking a healthy swallow of coffee. “ _Jesus_ no wonder we beat Hitler if we had this on our side.”

Bucky smiled at that. “Uh, I think the Lend-Lease Act had a little more to do with it, but anyway. It's  _not_ the same. It took decades for my programming to break down,” he pointed out quietly. “You were yourself again after a concussion.”

“Yes! Because I just had one very frustrated alien! You had a whole _army_ , hell, practically a whole government continually wiping and re-wiping and freezing you and...” Clint scrubbed at his hair. “And all of that is in your head. I get it. I _get_ it. But it wasn't your fault, Bucky. I swear. It wasn't because you weren't strong enough, or you weren't good enough, or anything like that.”

“I know,” Bucky said automatically. He'd been through this before, although, admittedly, not with someone who understood as viscerally as Clint did.

“You do, and you don't.” Clint sighed and slumped in the chair. “And the fact you're in a really pretty prison isn't helping, I know. And I'm about to make it worse.”

Bucky stilled, then forced himself to relax. “How?”

“Sorry for freaking you out, it's not really that bad.” Clint sighed. “It's this chip-thing that Tony sent with me. I'm supposed to inject it into you, so we can track where you are, make sure you're still alive, stuff like that. It monitors your heart rate and body temp, and your location.”

“Wouldn't want me to get eaten by a bear,” Bucky helpfully supplied.

“No. We really wouldn't.” Clint said, voice steady again. “So. Can I totally fuck with your bodily autonomy again?”

Bucky shrugged. “Be my guest. Where's it gotta go, my arm?”

Clint snorted, and dug through a smaller bag he'd kept on him. “Hell no, we already know you can survive amputations. It'll go in your torso, just under your sternum. Um. It'll hurt like fuck.”

Bucky sighed and took his t-shirt off. “Most things do.”

“Lie down, okay? That helps a little,” Clint said, and Bucky did, not even bothering to go over to the bed, instead lying down on the floor by the table. It wouldn't help, but Clint was trying. And at least scrubbing the floor was paying off.

Clint pulled out something that looked a little like a pen, with a particularly wide-gauge needle. “The tracker's embedded in the tip of this – as soon as I get it in place and press the button, it'll attach to the nearest bone.”

Bucky nodded and closed his eyes. “Go for it.”

“Okay. Breathe deep --” 

Bucky did, and let it out slowly as the thick needle pushed through his skin, his muscle, angled under his breastbone. It felt like Clint was pushing it deep, deep into him, maybe he was how he finally died, maybe it was all a front and Shield was quietly having him killed –

He breathed deeply again, and felt Clint start to pull the needle out, then cover the wound with soft, wet cotton. “I'm sorry,” he said gently. “It's all done. Lie there for a second, I gotta...get evidence. Yeah. Proof."

Bucky opened one eye and smirked up at him, even through the fading pain. If the photo Clint took with his phone didn't somehow 'accidentally' make its way to Steve, Bucky would eat a hat.

Oooh, hats. He needed winter-wear, if he was gonna be here longer. The winds were already changing; summer wouldn't be at its fullest much longer. Maybe he could ask for yarn and needles; he knew how to knit.

“Good?” Clint asked, and reached down, helping Bucky up.

“Fine. You're doing what you gotta do, man.”

Clint shrugged. “Hey, thanks for the food and coffee, but I should head back. You got anything more you want?"

“Yeah,” Bucky said, and handed over a sheet of paper, after adding a few things to it. It was mostly ingredients, and a few survival things, and a sewing kit. The rocks around here wore through clothes like nothing else. “Tell Steve, uh. Tell him to remember how Meg defeated IT.”

“Got it,” Clint said, and sketched a salute. “Be well, Bucky.”

“Bye. Safe flight back,” Bucky said, automatic pleasantries. He watched until Clint rounded the little cabin and disappeared behind the rocks; the opposite direction from where Nat had come. They definitely had to evade detection to come to him, and he bit his lip. Maybe he should ask them to stop coming; it was too dangerous. He wasn't worth it.

That way lay madness, though, that complete cutting off. He'd be selfish, and a little closer to sane for the moment. And anyway, now the Avengers could keep an eye on him from afar; maybe they really would stop coming, until it was just his corpse that needed retrieving.

Bucky pushed his thoughts away from where that lead, and started to unpack the big bag Clint had brought him. A few more clothes, mostly his, but with a worn t-shirt of Steve's that he wrapped around his pillow because fuck it, the birds weren't going to judge him. And there were three big, thick blank notebooks and three fountain pens, and enough refills to keep him going for months.

Bucky stacked them on the table, the pens neatly up against them. “Thanks, Nat.” He checked the books for any notes, either written in or an extra bit of paper tucked somewhere, but they were truly empty. Well; safer that way. And she'd sent him treats; the fountain pens were nicer than the old ballpoint he'd been using.

There was the food he'd asked for, and a box of candy bars too. Bucky unwrapped one and slowly ate it, savoring the ultra-sweetness while he put everything away, cleaned up after himself and Clint, and generally returned the cabin to a military neatness.

“Once a Sergeant, always a Sergeant,” he muttered, and remade the bed. And once an idiot, always an idiot, as he ghosted his hand across the worn t-shirt. He'd probably kissed it once, when it stretched across Steve's body. Oh, _Christ_ he missed Steve. 

Steve was awake, and alive. Steve remembered, and obviously Steve still loved him, even as Bucky's existence had nearly killed him  _again_ . They were both alive and knew who they were. If Bucky were a hoping kind of person, that would give him hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaghhh you guys writer's block is the woooorst.

As much as he didn't want to, Bucky did fall into a routine in the cabin. It was hard not to – the sun set the length of his days (just noticeably shorter than when he'd first come here) and keeping body and soul together filled big parts of them. He woke and made breakfast and a big pot of coffee, and made the bed. Cleaning up after breakfast followed, and sometimes cleaning himself off followed that.

If it was a truly hot day, he filled the washtub from the pump and lugged it outside, enjoying the novelty of bathing _en plein air_ and soaking under the blazing sun. Or, if he wasn't too gross, a quick sponge bath would do well. He practiced reading and writing, and watched the spare landscape, and cooked and ate regularly. When he could, Bucky wrote memories down, but never right before bed. Not when he still woke up sometimes, breathless with terror in the amazing dark of the wilderness.

 

At least the return of his libido gave him something to do.

Rarely, he was lucky enough to wake up with the memory of Steve's cock in his mouth and already spattered with his own spend. (Well, 'lucky'. Doing laundry sucked.) Bucky would lie in bed on those mornings, dazzled by his own mind and his body, boneless and happy from the orgasm. Those were really good mornings.

Or lazy, slow afternoons, like this one, when Bucky sprawled on the bed and popped the top button on his jeans. He was tentative, maybe a little too careful. For all that this act had consumed large numbers of his adolescent waking hours, he wasn't _quite_ sure how to get himself off anymore, and was inexplicably ashamed of this fact. Not like the fuckin' rocks and trees were going to judge him, but still. It had been bad enough, barely able to get hard for Steve.

So he explored. Bucky sprawled across the bed and closed his eyes, letting his mind wander at first. Thinking of Steve, of course, but also of his first real girlfriend, who had let him put his hand down her dress. He breasts had been small and curved in his hand like nothing else. She'd been perfect.

He rested his hand on the front of his jeans, rubbing softly, remembering sneaking a feel. Helen – that had been her name – hadn't let him feel beyond her chest, but his next girl, Mary Frances, had taken Bucky's hand and slid it up her thigh until he was touching the edge of her underwear. Bucky, younger than he'd told Mary Frances, had thought he might die.

The Bucky of now, so much older than he looked, smiled and felt his cock twitch, slowly swelling against his hand.

There had been so many girls. And boys, too. Everyone had been _gorgeous_ when he was young, somehow. Hell, people were still pretty gorgeous now. Sam was about as handsome as they came, and Lisle and Sarah had been lovely. (Tati was currently excluded from his train of thought for reasons of blood relation, _ew_.) And Steve, of course. Steve was _stupidly_ handsome. Bucky had once woken him up from a nap by punching him in the arm, because he was so annoyingly attractive. Steve had punched back, and they rolled around and then necked for a long time.

Steve. Yeah, Steve, that was the way to go. Bucky reached into his jeans, palming his cock through his briefs. Steve wet and dripping from swimming in the lake – nice. Steve lying on his belly in the grass, giggling when one of the women tickled his face with a daisy and Bucky sat on his bottom to pin him down – even nicer.

Steve in moonlight, every muscle thrown into relief. Steve wrapped around him, mouthing at Bucky's throat and making him moan. Steve's hand shoved down Bucky's pants, a quickie in an unused bedroom in a distant wing of the house. Bucky going to his knees and pulling down Steve's sweatpants, shoving him against a tree.

Bucky's hand had migrated to wrap around his cock and okay, yeah, wow. No fantasy needed, not when he felt like _this_ , but he still thought of Steve, and Steve's mouth, and Steve holding him down and biting at his shoulder and –

Bucky yelled because he could, and came fast and hard, starry-eyed.

He caught his breath slowly, lying on his bed in the late-summer sun, his hand sticky and gross. His whole body was relaxed, though, blissed-out and happy and remembering when it was loved.

That night, Bucky dreamed of Steve on the helicarrier, dreamed of firing shots into him and seeing him stumble and cry out, and he woke up only after Steve had dropped his shield and Bucky had taken another shot, another three, and red had blossomed and Steve had died, and Bucky had never, ever known who he was.

 

The day after that dream, Bucky started a new notebook. He had written pages and pages of good memories, of people he had loved and who had loved him. He'd dredged up a funny story or three, remembered the ill-fated Cyclone ride with Steve, and also remembered that that shirt had never quite been the same again. He had, however unconsciously, been building a reminder for himself; that not everything was bad.

But now it was time to write other memories down. It was wrong, to hope he'd forget them. For one thing, Bucky knew, _knew_ he would never forget the people he'd killed. For another – it wouldn't be right. No matter how many times people told him it wasn't his fault, he had still been the weapon. Too many people had seen him, terrifying in black and masked, as the last thing they would ever see.

Bucky was absolutely certain he would go to Hell when he died, and that was fair enough. It was fair enough, too, that the only value he had anymore was that he remembered and he could witness.

For all that Steve hadn't died, Bucky started there.

_The mission was to kill Captain America so that he wouldn't stop Project Insight_ .

Bucky still didn't write easily –  more proof he was useless for anything but killing, and  he  refused to do that anymore – but the words flowed out more easily than they ever had yet. Maybe this was a part of his penance; that he could only write the terrible things most easily. The memories were perfect, and went down smoothly. The man on the bridge, (and oh, Nat. Nat would get her own entry) then the helicarriers, poor Sam and his wings, and then Steve –

Bucky paused and breathed deeply. Steve who had wrestled with him in bed, and then stroked his hair until Bucky fell asleep. Steve who had helped him when he was in pain, Steve who was so kind to him. Who lit up every time Bucky smiled at him, let alone a kiss or more. Steve, who was alive and healing. He was  _alive_ .

Bucky finished writing, and closed the book with a sharp sound. He knew brooding didn't help, and dinner needed making. He had to keep himself alive because it would hurt too many people if he wasn't. And so he could bear witness.

The sunset that night was gorgeous, and Bucky walked outside in it, admiring the huge skies that glowed red, each cloud lit up impossibly. For a prison, this place had a deep beauty to it. It might not  exactly  help him  all of the time – Bucky was self-aware enough to recognize a depressive spell when he saw one – but it wasn't going to do him deep damage, either, he was pretty sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

_I was in a room with an Englishman they said had defected to our side. He was very intelligent and well-spoken, though it was odd to hear English again after all that time. I think it was Kim Philby; one of the Cambridge spy ring at least._

_All I needed to do was stand there, during meetings like these. Humans are scared by the unknown; humans who are going against a fairly basic moral code, moreso._

Bucky had a new notebook, for when he couldn't write down the deaths he had brought and when he didn't deserve the joy of sweet memories. These were...neutral, he decided. Stories that might help someone someday; everything important he remembered. It was probably deeply unimportant stuff now – after all, the Cold War was long over, and the wars before that were rapidly moving out of living history into the realm of lengthy tomes and short documentaries. Likely no one would really care about these memories except for some historians, but Bucky hoped he could help them a bit.

And Russia was still a superpower; Afghanistan still contested land. Hell, Belarus was still a dictatorship; maybe there was some scrap of something in all these words that would help someone, someday. It was a better use of his time than writing down how Steve smiled, even if that was what brought him peace. Bucky was still not entirely sure how much of that he deserved.

(God, but he missed Steve's smile. He missed that more, maybe, than kisses and sex and Steve giving him a hard time about something or other. He  _ached_ for that smile where Steve looked at him like he'd been given an unexpected gift, like he'd had some kind of reprieve.)

So on the days he balanced on a knifepoint, Bucky wrote these neutral histories down. No killing; just people in a fucked-up world.

 

It was a blowsy autumn day, when he got his next visitor. Bucky had dragged one of the chairs outside and sat by the door, whittling with an old pocket-knife he'd found in the cellar. He wasn't making anything in particular; just keeping his hands busy.

When the air changed and he heard the distant sounds of the Quinjet, Bucky folded up the knife and put it away. He leaned the chair back against the building and waited. No more knives, just as he'd already decided on no more guns. Bucky would live or die without taking anyone else with him.

He braced himself for whoever would come over the little ridge; Bucky was wary of sharing this solitude, as mixed-up as it was. He was lonely, but he liked that in a way. Didn't want to have other people around, telling him that he was feeling things wrong. Bucky was worthless now, and he knew it, and didn't have the patience for the kindness of others.

A real thrill of joy went through him, though, when Sam cleared the small ridge that put him in view of the cabin. He spotted Bucky almost immediately and raised his hand.

Bucky was up and running a moment later, more delighted than he'd expected.  _Sam_ . Sam would be good, he understood, and he didn't try to argue with Bucky. 

(“I am not your therapist,” he'd said, pretty bluntly, after a bad day. “You're like literally the only one here who isn't,” Bucky had said. “I know,” Sam had replies. “Now get to shucking that corn, please, unless you want to go back to starving to death.”)

“Hey!” Sam yelled out as soon as Bucky was close enough, and dropped the bag he was carrying.

Bucky clambered over a rock and didn't launch himself too hard at Sam, pulling back so that they could hug without Sam being bowled over. “Hey you!”

“Bucky! Man, it's good to see you again,” Sam enthused, hugging him back tightly. “Shit, you look amazing.”

“Sam, last time you saw me I was covered in blood.”

“See? Keeping expectations low. That's what you excel at, Sergeant.”

Bucky snickered, and shouldered the bag Sam was carrying. “No, I got it. You hauled it far enough. Shit, Sam, how are you?”

“I'm good.” Sam's smile was _huge_ , and was lighting up the whole fucking wilderness. “I'm really good. Got my wings back and it's better'n ever.”

“That's amazing,” Bucky said sincerely. “Flying a lot?”

“Uh huh.” Sam didn't elaborate, and Bucky didn't ask. “How you been?”

“Well, the social life out here is frankly exhausting...” Bucky laughed at Sam's sigh. “I'm...okay,” he said carefully. “I think I'm okay.”

“I'll take it.” Sam squeezed his shoulder. “You're doing good, considering. This shit out here, being alone – that's not who you are, is it?”

Bucky shrugged. “It's nice, though. Peaceful.” No one shooting at him; no one to shoot at. There were worse places to be.

“Hmm.” Sam didn't comment as they scrambled over the scrubby, rocky land to get to Bucky's little cabin.

“Water? Coffee?” Bucky offered once they were inside and the duffel set against the bed.

“Water, please, to start.” Sam smiled at him. “By the way – I can spend the night if you want me here. Things are...quiet. Back in civilization.”

Bucky didn't reply, but he filled a glass from the pump for Sam _and_ the battered metal coffeepot he'd found in the back of the cellar.

“I don't know a lot of what's going on,” Sam said quietly, after he'd drained the glass and Bucky was building the woodstove fire up again. “I know that there are a lot of lawyers, and they're all pretty much concerned with you.”

“The Winter Soldier would be tried at the Hague,” Bucky reminded him. “I guess, anyway. If there even was a public trial.”

“The Winter Soldier is a construct,” Sam argued. “A...torture. The Winter Soldier is _you_ , but Bucky Barnes is even more you.”

“Not what it felt like for seventy years,” Bucky said, poking at the fire. At least it was cool enough that the heat was pleasant.

“And that's why there's no fucking jury in the world would convict you.”

Bucky sat back on his heels and laughed. “ _Sam_. I've studied my recent history. To start with, twenty-seven percent of the US population would believe in _anything_. I've killed so many people. I killed Brady, and I was fucking well myself then. There's a river of blood on my hands, for fuck's sake, I _shot Captain America_. I'm not getting through this.”

“Yes, you are,” Sam said calmly. “Those deaths – you gotta work through them. But you're a man who deserves to live free, and you will. Soon. I think,” he admitted. “They don't tell me shit.”

“Do you...ever see Steve?” Bucky asked, a little wistfully.

Sam grinned. “If I tell you, d'you promise you won't forget about my coffee? I can't stand it burnt.”

“You were in the fucking _Air Force_ , you'll drink whatever I give you and you'll like it,” Bucky said, but he stood up and went over to Sam when beckoned.

Sam had pulled something up on his phone – he hit play and handed it to Bucky.

Bucky _definitely did not_ almost faint when the video started with Steve grinning. He poked something on the screen, and said over his shoulder, “Hey, this working?”

“Yes, Jesus, it's working!” came Sam's voice from offscreen.

“All right already. A little privacy here?” Steve turned back to the camera, grinning. He looked pale, but there wasn't anything obviously wrong with him. And also, here was Bucky's heart that walked around outside of his body, alive and well, sitting up and making a video and so beautiful it hurt to look at him. “Hey, Buck,” he said, and his smile grew even more. “Hi. I miss you. I miss you so much, baby. I swear, I will make this up to you. You don't deserve any of this.” He shook his head. “It's so fucking wrong, but you're safe at least. Safer even than in the Tower.”

“I guess I better get to the important stuff. I don't know how our ladies are exactly, but they're all alive. Sarah's alive, honey, I promise. They're someplace safe too.” Steve ran his hand through his hair. “I'm, um, I'm good, I guess. It was touch and go for a little bit there--”

Bucky's jaw tightened, but he didn't make a sound. He wouldn't even have had a chance to say _goodbye_.

“-- but I'm doing better now! Way better. Almost back to usual.” Steve flushed and smiled. “I miss you every day, Buck. I hope you're doing okay. I hope you're taking care of yourself. Everyone who comes back says you're lookin' good, that it's not too hard on you. I hope you know we love you, the girls and me and Nat and even Sam. We all love you, and we're pullin' for you. And we're gonna get you outta there, make it so you can live the life you deserve. You just hang on for us, okay?”

Bucky refused to cry.

“I can't really fly yet,” Steve admitted. “But as soon as I can – I promise, baby. You won't be alone. I love you so much.” He coughed, and rubbed his eyes, then recovered. “You'll be free soon. I swear. You be good, Buck, and we'll be together again before you know it.” He hesitated. “Okay, I don't wanna make this too long. I love you. Um. Bye.” And then the file ended.

“I'm gonna take a walk,” Sam said, when Bucky just sat there for a few minutes. “With my coffee. Take in the sights and all.”

Bucky nodded, more intensely grateful for the sole Avenger with some sense of how people worked than he'd ever been before.

He watched the video again, starved for every one of Steve's glances, his little tics, the way his mouth moved when he talked. Even beyond his words – fuck, this was his Stevie. He saw, this time, the catch in Steve's movement; he was still in pain, his injuries hidden. If he couldn't fly, couldn't stay out here with Bucky, couldn't even visit, how bad was it?

He was getting better, Bucky reminded himself.

Bucky now had a phone with a camera in it, he reminded himself as well.

It took a few seconds to find the app and hit the record button. He accidentally filmed a few seconds of his bed before he set the camera to the screen-side, and wished he'd brushed his hair a little better that morning.

“Hey Stevie.” He cleared his throat, and smiled. “Hey, it's so good to see you. You're lookin' good, honey. Maybe need a little more sun. Go lie in the sun in Central Park for me, okay? Indulge your dumb boyfriend. I'm...I'm good. I really am.” He laughed. “I woulda shaved for you, if I'd known. It's peaceful here. Quiet. I read and write a lot.” He paused and licked his lips. “I know it won't go well for me, back in the world. I know you're trying hard, but things don't go my way – 'cept for you, and see what that got you?”

He paused and shook his head. “Sorry. I wasn't gonna get maudlin on you, honest. I'm fine. Don't you worry about me. Promise me you'll take care of yourself, worry about you and the girls but don't...don't give me any thought. I'll be fine, really.”

And then, before he could break down. “I love you, Stevie. I love you more than anything. I miss you too. I can't wait to see you again. Barnes out.”

He stopped the record function and carefully put the phone down, then carefully laid his head on his arms and very carefully didn't cry. If he started now, he'd never stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think of Bucky as not so much an unreliable narrator, as one who just *constantly fronts*.
> 
> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys -- sorry posting has been so sporadic! I'm hoping to build up kind of a buffer, and should return to a chapter a week or so.

The rest of the afternoon was considerably less emotional. Sam came back from his little walk (“Okay, I was lying, I just couldn't bear to be in the room with the Greatest Love Story, but shit, Barnes, it's  _amazing_ out there.” “I fucking  _told_ you.”) and Bucky made them a late lunch. They left the dishes for later, because they could, and Bucky filled some water bottles and took Sam roaming over the land he had mapped out in his head. They visited the big rock that something  _really_ big slept in front of sometimes, and he pointed out all the birds that were wheeling overhead. 

Sam genuinely enjoyed everything Bucky showed him, and for a few hours, they were just two guys hanging out, exploring the strange, almost lunar landscape. The scrubby trees, the rocks everywhere, and the vast sky arching above them. Sam admitted that he'd gotten permission to stay the night, but not permission for the video from Steve.

“I got news for you, you're probably breakin' more rules,” Bucky admitted.

Sam sighed. “If my nieces call when I've accidentally left my phone at Steve's, you're answering for it.”

“That's fair,” Bucky said. “How is he, really?”

“A fucking pain in my ass, to be honest.”

“Oh, so he's fully recovered then.” Bucky grinned at the sour look from Sam. “Aww. Do you want to join me forever in my Isolation Hut?”

“ _No_ , I want to go back to my very nice apartment in the very nice Stark Towers and I want take a take a bath in my giant garden bathtub while I gaze out over Manhattan. Then I want a perfectly chilled beer while I air-dry my balls in the general direction of Wall Street. _Then_ I want to put on my very nice, clean clothes that someone else washed for me, and go enjoy myself on the roof deck. And I will enjoy myself because I've shipped Steve out _here_ so the two of you can meeble at each other and I can enjoy the life I have _earned_.”

Bucky was practically on the ground he was laughing so hard when Sam finished his diatribe. “You're a saint,” he choked out.

“I know,” Sam said, and poked him with a boot. “You're both super-gross and have martyr complexes. I'm so glad there's two of you, so you could find each other.”

“I put up with his grumpy ass for decades before you did. Share the pain a little, huh, Sam?”

“Barnes, when I can enjoy a whole meal without him being guilty about something at me, we can talk about sharing the pain a little.”

“Decades,” Bucky said firmly, but he also got up and smiled at Sam, sweet and suddenly vulnerable. “Hey. Ship him out here as soon as you can, okay? Please? I kinda miss him and his guilt.”

“He misses you too,” Sam said, as they started walking again. “And as soon as he's well enough, I'm sticking him in the Quinjet and flying him here myself, I promise. I might even be nice enough to slow down once I'm overhead, before I physically boot him out.”

Bucky laughed again, and led Sam on a scramble over a small, rocky hill. “You're the best, Wilson.”

“I know.”

 

They circled back to the cabin the long way, Bucky leading Sam along the paths he'd sighted over long, boring days. It was going to start getting cold soon, and while it was pretty clear that a chill was unlikely to kill Bucky, it was going to get harder to be outside. He didn't even want to guess what a blizzard would do to the now-familiar landscape.

“Winter's gonna suck out here,” Bucky observed as the cabin came into view.

“You think you'll still be here when real winter hits?” Sam asked.

Bucky snorted. “You think I won't?”

“Point.” Sam shrugged. “I hope you won't. There's not much I can do and I can't promise you anything, but...yeah.” He sighed. “You deserve better than this, Barnes.”

Bucky made a non-committal noise. “I'm not angry or anything. This is the safest place for me, I know.” Two people had taken bullets for him and were lucky to be alive; no one else needed to be added to that.

“Hm,” Sam said.

“You know how you always used to say you weren't my therapist?”

“Ye-es,” Sam said slowly.

“That means you can say what you're thinking,” Bucky told him dryly as they headed for the cabin.

“Hah! Okay. I think this place is safe, and if you feel safe here, that's a big deal and I can accept that,” Sam said. “But I don't think it's the only place where you would be safe and I feel decidedly iffy about shoving you into the middle of nowhere with no support system beyond a well-stocked pantry and a visit once every few weeks.”

“Sam, I'm the fucking Winter Soldier,” Bucky told him. “I'm not safe _anywhere_ , and you know it. And stop making that face, I know you learned it from Steve, but I _am_ the Winter Soldier, even if I can't – won't – hold a weapon anymore.”

“I _definitely_ did not pick up Steve's disapproving face. People would do what I said more often if I had,” Sam argued. “And look, I'm not gonna fight you if you're doing okay here, and, okay, you feel like the people you care about are safe.” Sam paused, and laid a hand on Bucky's shoulder, heavy as hell, just for a moment. “The people you care about are safe,” he repeated. “I promise. If you gotta be out here on this rock to be a little more sure of that, then I won't argue with you.”

Bucky shrugged. “I'm okay. I mean, you can see for yourself. It's lonely, yeah, but it's peaceful, too. I got time to think stuff through, you know?” He smiled. “And yeah. People tend to get shot at when I'm around, so...you know. This is what's best.”

Sam sighed. “It just feels wrong, you know? When I met you, you were a giant comatose pain in my ass and it went downhill when you started walking and talking but you still deserve better, man.”

“We're talking in circles now,” Bucky said. “Seriously, how 'bout I make some coffee and you catch me up on the baseball season.”

“Um. Oh God.” Sam groaned. “Bucky, I am _useless_ at sports.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Why did they even send you out here. You seriously don't know how the Mets are doing?”

“I am aware they are a baseball team. That's about it.”

Bucky sighed deeply as he filled a kettle with water. “Okay, fine. Current events.”

“That I can do!” Sam said gleefully, and spent the next hour nursing his coffee and recounting the broad strokes while Bucky unpacked and put his share of food, clothes and books away. He was deeply charmed to find that someone had thought to stick in needles and a few balls of wool, plus a pattern for hats and mittens.

Bucky half-intended to gently guide all conversation away from himself, but found he didn't have to – Sam either really _was_ bored of going in conversational circles, or he was perceptive enough to avoid it, because the rest of the evening passed in refreshingly banal conversation.

Sam taught Bucky how to fake a hamburger casserole on the stovetop, and they both ate their fill happily while night fell. The evening brought cleaning up together, and Bucky teaching Sam how to knit, which led to stories about Bucky's mother knitting for the family, and the endless pile of mending.

(“That reminds me,” Bucky said, hesitating a little. “Winter clothes --”

“On the next flight, as soon as I can get them to you,” Sam promised. “It's already chilly as hell, and it's just September. We're – ah. Northerly.”

Bucky smiled, but didn't ask. Safer, that way. “Thanks.”)

Sam won the bed in a game of rock-scissor-paper, and Bucky got his sleeping bag, which he promptly unrolled next to the fire, burrowed into, and fell asleep to Sam making some frankly impossible anatomical suggestions to him, when he figured out that Bucky had gotten the warmest spot in the cabin.

When Bucky woke up with the bed actually shoved _over_ him, he laughed so loudly that he woke Sam up and wasn't sorry even a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little treat, to make up for so long between chapters...

Bucky woke up, and burrowed deeper under his blanket. Fuck. He should've asked for more bedding – one extra wool blanket wasn't going to do it, even with the stove going all night, and he'd rather not do that, because of the high chance of being totally fucked if he ran out of wood. A banked fire was getting him through these late autumn days, but it was noticeably chilly inside except for when the sun was at its highest. And Bucky really, really did not like being cold.

He'd been lucky, he reckoned; it had been early summer when he'd been found, and it was easy to be warm and comfortable with the summer sun always just there. The air in his room had always been fresh, the French doors open even when he couldn't yet go outside. Bucky dozed a little and remembered the heat of summer. The way his body had sucked warmth in from the big rock he and Steve would swim out to, the way even the setting sun warmed his bones. Nights had been cooler, of course, but there had been blankets and quilts everywhere, and always someone to make sure he had one if he needed it, before he could get one himself. And, of course, Steve –

Bucky shied his mind away. He missed Steve more every day; wrote memories of him down every night and dreamed of him and his heart ached.

Winter in the big house would have been wonderful, and even as it made tears leak from his tightly-closed eyes, Bucky let himself daydream. Steve, of course, big and warm and a heater in his own right, and them piling their duvets together. The big house was always warm; it was impossible not to be. The radiators would clank when the heat went on, and he and Steve would have gone from room to room, bleeding them as needed and making everyone was comfortable, especially Tati in her distant little cave of a room, dark and welcoming and easy to move around in.

(Tati, oh, honey, the last of my family. Be all right. Please, just be all right, and don't be too angry at me for making your home unsafe, Bucky prayed. He couldn't ever go back to the big house. He didn't deserve that anymore, had shown he was unsafe.)

Back to his daydream. He'd be waking up in his big bed with Steve snuggled up to him. If they woke early, they would go and make breakfast for the household. Bucky could bundle up in slippers and fleece pants and a big sweater until the heat kicked in properly, or until coffee and food had warmed him sufficiently. If they slept in, someone else would have started breakfast, and maybe Steve would go make a tray for them and Bucky could eat in bed or – to be honest, he was well now. His leg never even ached, and there was no real excuse to stay in bed, so they could go and eat at the table with everyone, with hugs and kisses from Steve and sometimes from Tati and Lisle. (Once –  _once_ – Steve had made apple cake, right before everything went to hell, and he'd gotten a hug from Sarah. Bucky had been loudly jealous.)

Possibly he would get dressed and walk the land with Steve, taking in the last autumn colors and the bite in the air. Or possibly he would change into day pajamas (definitely a thing, he had been assured) and curl up with an audiobook in the living room, or their bedroom, or one of the distant, rarely-used bedrooms that offered peace and a chance at solitude, and he'd listen to the story and watch the world around him, cautiously happy.

Bucky gently drew his mind back to the present. Daydreams were all well and good, but that kind of thing wasn't for him anymore, and he had to wake up and get moving. He wanted to check the roof, make sure it was weathertight, and go foraging for wood. He had an axe, but didn't want to leave evidence of human intervention if he could help it, and anyway green wood burned for shit.

He shivered as he got up and started the fire up from banked coals. Coffee first to drive the chill from his body, then food, then work, to fill the hours. Keep moving; stay alive. That would do it.

 

That night, Bucky barely got his boots off before falling into bed. The roof was sound, but he'd fallen when he was coming down, and broken his wrist. He'd managed to splint it, and get some food into himself, but healing stole away the energy to do anything else. He'd tried to read and write, but the words just swam before him, letters turning into opaque symbols, and Bucky had given up quickly. Some days, it just didn't come.

(He hadn't meant to fall off the roof. He really hadn't. He was pretty sure.)

So Bucky kicked his boots off and crawled under the covers, healing wrist cradled to his chest. Tomorrow would be better – it had to be.

 

Three days after he'd taken the splint off, two days after he'd replenished the firewood enough to be cautiously hopeful, and a day after he'd watched a hawk dive down and kill a rabbit not ten feet from his cabin, the air changed and Bucky knew that one of the Avengers was coming. He hoped, just a little –

But no. It was Clint who came over the rise, whistling and carrying the ubiquitous duffel bag with him.

Bucky slipped out the door, closing it behind him to keep at least some of the heat inside. The cabin  _was_ insulated, broadly-speaking, but not terribly well. He'd already started sewing worn-through socks together to create a door snake, and he hoped dearly that Clint had more cold-weather gear for him.

“Hey.” Clint looked drawn; tired and worried.

“Hi. Coffee?”

“God, yes, always.” This seemed to relieve some of the stress, and Bucky set to making a big pot for them to share.

“How's it going?” he asked casually, as Clint slumped in front of the stove, warming his hands.

“Busy,” he said shortly, and unzipped a side pocket on the duffel, pulling out an envelope. “This is for you.”

 

_Bucky,_

_Clint will tell you more, but we're getting you out of there. You're coming home soon, baby, I promise. Where you'll never fight again, where you'll be safe and we can live together and do whatever you want. I promise you. Legal stuff – I hate it, but it's necessary. Just hold on for me, Buck. Please._ ~~_I'm going to make you the best home you've ever had._ ~~ _When you get here, we'll make a home together._

_I love you,_

_Steve_

 

“Legal stuff?” Bucky asked, when the lump in his throat had cleared.

Clint had already helped himself to coffee while Bucky read. “Legal stuff,” he confirmed. “Some of it's what they had to do for Steve – make sure you're legally alive and not MIA anymore or anything like that. Bureaucratic stuff. Some of it's...more complex.”

“Like how I'm an assassin previously working for the USSR, then Russia,” Bucky said, heart sinking. He wasn't _worth_ this, Steve, stop ruining your life.

“Mmm. And how you were brainwashed, and shouldn't even be charged,” Clint said.

“Steve is the biggest idiot ever.”

“Well, yeah, but not about this. Look, trust me – you've got a lawyer now, her name's Bernie, you'll love her.” Clint waved all that away. “You're gonna beat this. You can do whatever _you_ gotta do to get right with yourself, but you won't have the government coming down on you at least.”

“Hmm,” Bucky said, but let it drop.

“Hey, I can't stay long.” Clint rubbed his eyes. “Shit, I'm sorry. I wish I could hang out and, you know, give you something to talk to, but I gotta go soon. You wanna write something to Steve? I promise I'll get it to him.”

“Yeah.” Bucky was used to solitude, anyway, and he could ignore the pang of Clint leaving so soon. According to Steve, he'd be out of this place shortly, anyway.

According to Bucky's own mind, he would probably die here, but – well, there were worse things. He'd  _done_ a lot of worse things.

Bucky pulled a page from one of his notebooks, and started to write. At least he could do so quickly now, and smoothly.

 

_Steve –_

_You dumbass. I know I can't deter you, but I want to. I'm not worth this._

_There, I said my piece. I miss you, honey. I miss you so bad. It's okay here in my exile, but I do miss you. I read and write so well now, you'd be proud of me. It's beautiful here, honest it is._

_This is all so disjointed, I'm sorry. I want to make a home with you, but I don't think that's a thing I get. Make a home for yourself, love, but don't wait for me. I'll be okay – I always am, you know?_

_I love you forever,_

_Bucky_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't say I never give you nice things ;)

There had been a package of cocoa in Clint's delivery, and Bucky hoarded it carefully, not knowing when the next visitor would come. Possibly not until spring, Clint had said – it was getting dangerous, they were being followed, and even in the Quinjet it was unsafe to fly these wild plains in the winter; the winds were too strong and unpredictable. They would try to airdrop him some food, if it came to that, but he agreed that he had enough to stay alive, at least, until spring.

But on this crystal night, Bucky decided, it was worth the sacrifice of a few spoonfuls of cocoa, some sugar, and some milk. He made it over the stove, the smell filling the cabin. Familiar, in a good way.

Bucky had filled the notebook of good memories, and forced himself now to work on the bad, but couldn't keep from telling himself the good stories. The way Mam had made cocoa on the stove on cold nights, while Bucky read aloud to the little girls. Christmas Eve night, when Dad had taught them to listen not for Saint Nicholas, but for the Christ Child flying overhead and leaving their gifts in the next room.

(Steve had told Bucky about Santa Claus, and Bucky told him about the Christ Child, and they were each pretty impressed with the lares and penates of the other.)

It was only October, but this felt like the icy December nights Bucky remembered, so he made cocoa and wrapped a blanket around himself and sat by the window, looking out at the stars overhead. The Milky Way, and a perfect moon, and that vast open sky.

No one could care about the sins of one man, under a sky that deep and full of stars, each of them a sun, infinite in capacity. Bucky dreamed a little, under that starry sky, and listened to the bitter cold silence outside. No wolves howled, nothing moved, even the wind was still in that perfect silence.

He fell asleep in the chair, but didn't mind the crick in his neck. Not when he woke and remembered dreams of stars and black of the sky and enveloping quiet as good and warm as anything.

 

A week later, Bucky woke up to a world transformed. It had begun to snow in the night, and the landscape was colorless, smooth with the first few inches of snow. Shadows were visible here and there, beneath the taller rocks or where wind had scudded the snow into little drifts, but his world was brand new.

Bucky shrugged on his thickest sweater and ventured outside, boots crunching in the snow. It was  _beautiful._ He couldn't help but laugh and run out into the wonderland a little ways, entranced by the changed view around him. He knew this land for a good mile around, and now it was made new for him, beautiful and clean, and even the cold didn't bother him that much.

Bucky explored a little, threw a snowball at a tree, and headed back inside for breakfast. He hummed a little to himself as he cooked oatmeal, stirring in a handful of dried fruit and cinnamon, and sipped from his coffee.

Just as he was finishing breakfast, the air changed the way it always did when the Quinjet flew overhead.

Bucky frowned at that – he had figured he was on his own until spring and wondered if he'd been found. His notebooks went into a backpack that he stowed by the door; not that there was anywhere to run, but he could at least try. Running was a thing he knew, and it wasn't fighting, and if he had to choose, he'd rather die in the spare lunar landscape outside than in a cell somewhere, beaten to death.

(Taste of blood, feel of broken teeth in his mouth, bruises, burns--

Bucky shut that line of memory down. Such things could come out later, when he sat down to write.)

He cleaned the cabin and made his bed, jumpy and annoyed. The morning had been so unexpectedly beautiful, and someone had  _definitely_ flown overhead, and they were taking their sweet fucking time getting to the cabin. Hydra was definitely more efficient than this, so Bucky wondered if there was another splinter group in Shield. They would think they were lulling him into complacency or something.

Bucky went outside after he'd cleaned the cabin, for lack of anything better to do. Fat flakes were still falling, and the snow was getting deeper, his usual landmarks getting smoothed out or erased entirely. Everything was silent and beautiful, and he drank in the sight, in case he was going to die that day.

A distant movement caught his eye, and Bucky quietly slipped behind one of the big boulders. There was a figure moving through a line of trees.

Bucky silently walked closer, going up a slight rise but staying purposely hidden. The figure was moving slowly, much more so than any person should.

It was carrying something – a travois. A heavily-loaded one, Bucky guessed, as it (he?) turned to one side to clear a pile of rocks; it made a deep track in the snow.

He crouched in his hiding place, quiet and patient, and watched the figure slowly make its way closer. Tall, definitely male, wearing white. Fur around the hood of the parka he wore concealed his face until –

Bucky was already up and running before Steve even finished pushing the hood back. He was so  _stupid_ , he knew that body and that walk and the way Steve moved and the way he was raking his fingers through his stupid hair and looking around and stupid, stupid,  _stupid._

“Bucky!” Steve called, and Bucky stumbled, fell, and was up and running downhill again, making for Steve as fast as he could. Steve was running towards him, too, though slowed by the heavy travois.

Bucky pushed himself faster and bowled into Steve at top speed, the other man catching him easily, arms coming around Bucky as he stumbled back just a step, and then Bucky was wrapped around him, no t so much kissing him as frantically shoving their bodies together, tongue and lips and teeth clashing, breathing each other in, gasping breaths between tasting cold skin.

“Steve,” Bucky choked out, and buried his face in the side of Steve's neck, breathing him in.

“I got you, baby,” Steve managed, and Bucky felt him go heavy – no, _weak_ , collapsing, and Bucky lowered them both to the ground, letting Steve curl up practically in his arms, face hidden in Bucky's neck for a moment.

“Think I got you too,” Bucky murmured to him, when he'd relaxed a little, and Steve laughed.

“I fucking love you so much, Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky brushed a cold fingertip across Steve's lips. “I love you too. So fucking much.” A little kiss, softer now. “Come on. It's a little ways to the cabin still, I want to get you inside.”

“You're the one getting soaked!” Steve squawked, when he realized what Bucky was wearing, and that they were sprawled in the snow. “Sweet Jesus, did no one send you --” He groaned. “No. Fuck, _I_ have your winter gear. Get up, you numbnuts.”

Bucky scrambled up, grinning. “I'm fine, asshole. C'mon, share the travois with me, we can both pull.”

“God, you were like this as a kid, too. Turning blue, but one of the girls had your scarf and the other had your coat.”

“And you had my mittens. Steve, c'mon. I don't like the cold,” Bucky whined.

“You _literally_ have only yourself to blame,” Steve said, unhitching the rope around his waist and tying it to both of them. “Right, where's this godforsaken hut, in Sam's words?”

“It's not that bad,” Bucky said, and paused. “Uh. So, I guess you're here to...visit?” he asked, as they headed up the rise.

“The fuck I am.” Steve paused and turned to face Bucky, cupping his face in his gloved hands. “I'm here to stay, beautiful. I'm not fucking leaving you out here all winter. It's been too long as it is. My baby needs to know he's loved.”

“Oh my God, you total loser,” Bucky said around the lump in his throat. “Steve, I know you love me. Known that all my life.”

“Yeah, but you don't think you deserve it.” Steve set his jaw, and turned, and started walking again. “And I'm here to make sure you know how valuable and good you are, and that you deserve it all.”

Bucky didn't reply, but walked with Steve, the ground covered quickly. He let them in, the heat in the little cabin startling after the brisk cold of outside.

“Out of those wet clothes,” Steve informed him.

“Out of that big coat, and lie down,” Bucky bossed right back.

“I'm completely healed,” Steve said, setting his jaw.

“That's nice. I don't believe you.” Bucky pulled off the sweater and his shirt, and got down to his underwear in the time it took Steve to prissily remove boots, coat and snow pants, and pointedly not lie down on the bed.

Bucky sighed loudly and lay down himself.

“Oh,” said Steve, who had been examining the kitchen, but turned around to see Bucky on the bed. “Oh, fuck.”

“You are dumber than a box of rocks,” Bucky informed him.

“Fuck you,” Steve said, and shed his clothes as he stalked across the room, travois and kitchen and everything forgotten, going by the way he was looking at Bucky on the bed.

He pounced and – everything changed.

They hadn't seen each other in months. Steve had nearly died; Bucky had been exiled and alone and barely touched, let alone had someone to hold and kiss. And now they had a bed, and each other, and it was warm and Steve hesitated, then kissed him softly on the mouth.

Bucky kissed back just the same, mouth closed, kiss almost chaste. He kept his arms around Steve, rubbed his thumb on the smooth skin between Steve's shoulder blades, and kissed him again, barely opening his mouth.

They were  _shy_ , Bucky realized. Shy with each other, with that fierce love now transplanted and away from the magical house. They had to get used to each other again, was all.

“Hey,” Bucky said softly, and smiled at Steve. “Hi. I missed you, honey.”

Steve grinned at him, wide and sweet. “I missed you too.” He kissed Bucky, soft and quick, and lay back, the two of them on their sides facing one another. He even pulled up the extra quilt folded at the foot of the bed to cover them. “How are you? Really?”

“Not so great,” Bucky said. He had never even _tried_ to keep anything from Steve. He didn't know how, he suspected. “It's lonely here, even if it is peaceful.” He bit his lip. “I ruin everything for you. You almost died because of me, and Sarah got hurt. I don't deserve...anything.”

“I think you do. You deserve everything.” Steve touched Bucky's chin, lifting his face for a little kiss. “I think you deserve your heart's desire, after everything that's been done to you. I'd take a thousand bullets for you, Buck, and so would anyone else who loves you.”

“I fell off the roof,” Bucky said. “I didn't really try to stop myself.”

“Did you get hurt?” Steve asked, brow creasing.

“Broke my wrist. Like a month ago!” Bucky protested, when Steve went for his hand, chafing his wrist gently. “It's more than healed.”

“So am I,” Steve pointed out. Indeed, his skin was smooth and unmarked. He was strong, hale and healthy.

Bucky rested his forehead on Steve's chest, where he had seen so much blood. “You're really okay?” he asked thickly.”

“I healed months ago, love. It took some time, yeah, but --”

“I should have been there for you!” Bucky looked up, heartbroken. “Oh my God, I should have...should have fought, or hidden, or anything. Shoulda been there for you, the way you were for me.” It was his turn to give everything up, to tend to Steve, to try to pay back...

Well. They didn't have debts, really, between the two of them. But his first memories outside of Hydra were of Steve being so gentle with him, Steve making sure his was comfortable, Steve helping Lisle tend to Bucky's hurts. Bucky had  _earned_ the right to do the same for his love.

“I would have given anything to have you with me,” Steve said, all raw honesty. “But you wouldn't have been safe there. They would have taken you, not even a _trial_ , woulda said you were waiting for trial and God knows how they would've treated you. I wouldn't have gotten you, even if you had been there.” He took a deep breath. “I missed you with all my heart. But it's best you were here. I promise.”

“Not fair,” Bucky said, but when had anything in his life been fair?

Steve smiled at that, probably thinking the same thing, still idly stroking his fingertips along Bucky's hand and wrist. “Yeah. But I'm here now.” He kissed Bucky softly. “Gonna help you, any way I can. And no one's tearing us apart again. You had to do so much alone.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, and meant it. “I think...being alone helped, too. In its way.”

Steve nodded, and Bucky pulled him a little closer, urging him to rest his head on Bucky's chest.

“Still glad you're here now,” Bucky said softly, finger-combing Steve's hair.

“Me too.” Steve snuggled a little closer, pressing little kisses to Bucky's chest. “You need more padding on you,” he scolded gently. “But you look good. Better even than the last time I saw you. The last time before, uh, all the shit went down,” he amended.

“Hah. Thank you, I think?” Bucky smiled and started to scritch Steve's back. “You look amazing, as usual, you little shit.”

Steve laughed out loud at that, and gave a happy groan at his little back rub. “Mmm, feels nice.”

“How bad was it?” Bucky asked softly. “Really?”

“Bad,” Steve said quietly. “It was over a month before I was back to myself.” He gave Bucky a soft little pinch. “Worse'n the Helicarrier. You're so shit at your job, Winter Soldier.”

Bucky winced. “Too soon, Steve.”

“I'm sorry,” Steve said, and meant it. Bucky kept up the light back scratches, while Steve seemed awfully content to lie with his head over Bucky's heart, because he was a dweeb. The little cabin was bright, full of light reflecting off the snow. Bucky might even have to come up with curtains, he realized – moonlight on snow would be bright enough to read by.

Later. They had to go through Steve's haul of goodies, and a few little chores needed doing, but later. Right now, this moment, he was warm in bed with his lover sprawled over him, the two of them getting used to another body in their arms again, getting used to each other the best way they knew how, with soft touches and contact and the occasional little kiss, or tease, or question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	10. Chapter 10

Bucky lazed in bed while Steve made them a late lunch, rising and throwing on enough clothes to stay warm just to eat. They tidied up enough to not feel guilty, while snowflakes slowly drifted down outside.

Bucky dried his hands and slipped up behind Steve where he was looking out a window, and wrapped his arms around Steve's waist.

“Hey,” he whispered, and kissed just under his ear. “Pretty, right?”

“Pretty,” Steve confirmed and turned around, pulling Bucky into a slow kiss. “Prettier,” he teased, and Bucky groaned and shoved him.

“You are! Glad I brought a couple sketchbooks,” Steve teased, chasing him down and lifting him up in a hug. “Oh, Buck. It's so good to see you again.”

“Stop being so genuine, it actually hurts,” Bucky scolded, but he hugged Steve back tightly.

“Up,” Steve ordered, his arms under Bucky's bottom, and Bucky laughed and hoisted himself up, legs wrapping around Steve's waist.

“Shouldn't we be unpacking?” he asked, as Steve walked across the little space – littler now with the travois – to the bed.

“Nothin' that won't keep,” Steve promised, and laid Bucky down on the bed. “Uh.” He stopped. “Unless you really want...a break?”

Bucky smiled and held his arms out. “Baby, I am not even close to having my fill of you. C'mere.”

Steve went, laughing, and they made out slow and lazy, their bodies rubbing together, stretching, moving so easily against each other. Steve pulled Bucky's shirt off and kissed his chest; only briefly over his heart, but then exploring the soft, scarred skin. He paid especial attention to the scarred left nipple, licking and kissing the skin there, and nuzzling his way Bucky's ribs.

Bucky giggled when his lover tickled, and sighed when he didn't, fingertips caressing Steve's hair, his back, his shoulders. He gently nudged Steve into taking his shirt off, and groaned when they lay together, skin-to-skin.

Steve started to work his leg between Bucky's thighs, already setting up a rhythm, and he smiled when Bucky rolled his hips back, one hand working down the back of Steve's pants and giving a little squeeze.

“I love you,” Steve said, in the sudden, heartbreaking way he had.

“Love you too,” Bucky whispered, and pulled Steve down again for a kiss. He moved his hand around Steve's waist and popped the top button on his jeans, slowly working the zipper down, making sure the back of his hand stroked Steve lightly.

“Oh, _God_ ,” Steve breathed, and reached between them, visibly a little startled at what he found in Bucky's pants. “Oh.”

“Oh yeah,” Bucky said casually. “That's all fixed, now.”

Steve made a strangled noise, and Bucky lost it, laughing as Steve rapidly got him naked.

“You too!” he ordered, pulling down Steve's pants, and giggled again when he wriggled out of them. And made a choking sound when Steve dove for Bucky's cock, mouth wrapping around it, taking in as much as he could.

“Oh, _Steve_ ,” he sighed, rolling his hips. “Fuck, oh, yes.”

Steve made a hungry, keening sound, and Bucky bit his lip to keep from coming then and there.

“Oh no,” he managed, after he'd thought of baseball for a minute. “You don't get all the fun. C'mon, sixty-nine.”

Steve pulled his mouth off with a wet, obscene  _pop_ that had Bucky's eyes rolling back into his head, but he turned around so he was kneeling over Bucky, and with a little shifting, they made their similar heights work.

Bucky wrapped his mouth around Steve's cock, tongue already swirling, and he moaned when he tasted salt already. They weren't going to last, and he saw no need to, but he was also going to  _win_ .

Steve might have gotten a head start, but Bucky had a good angle work with, and he caressed Steve's thighs, soothing the tensed muscles, working his way up his lover's legs, squeezing his bottom and kneading the thick muscles.

He moaned when Steve took him deeper, but refused to vary from his plan. Not that there was much to it, but Steve didn't suspect a thing when Bucky slipped just the very tip of the index finger of his metal hand into Steve's hole.

The sound he made was...impressive. As was the speed of his orgasm, Bucky ably sucking him down, free hand caressing his ribs, his metal hand thrusting lightly.

“Oh my God,” Steve moaned, having pulled his mouth free. “Fuck, fuck, oh my _God_.”

Bucky just laughed, delighted, even as Steve swallowed his cock down again, head bobbing, cheeks hollowed, until Bucky came, still giggling and moaning and everything was so, so good.

 

It took another orgasm each before they were sated and sleepy, cuddling together under the quilt, this time with Bucky's head on Steve's chest.

“You okay?” Steve asked solicitously. “I can get you water, or anything, baby.”

Bucky shook his head, and wrapped his arms a little more firmly around Steve's waist. He still couldn't feel his legs. “'m fine. Stay with me.”

“Of course.” Nothing made Steve happier than for Bucky to ask for things, and asking for Steve to be with him probably made him happiest of all. So Bucky rested heavy on his lover, blissed-out and distantly achy, and reveled in not being alone.

 

They finally got up when the sun began to dip low, indulging in dressing one another. Bucky tried to kiss everywhere he remembered bullet wounds, but Steve gently nudged him into stopping, and pulled the fleece he'd been wearing over Bucky's head, smiling when the static made his hair dance.

“Cutie,” he said, and Bucky made a face at him. Heartless killers didn't have cozy pullovers and didn't get called cute, and he loved every moment of this, but he wasn't going to let _on_.

They unpacked the travois together. More clothes (mostly for Steve), but a thick parka and insulated pants for Bucky. Another blanket that Bucky immediately draped around Steve's shoulders, so Steve pulled Bucky into an embrace with the blanket wrapped around them both, and they kissed in front of the glowing stove for a few minutes.

“I missed you so much,” Steve whispered. “It would have all been so much better if we could've been together.”

Bucky just nodded and pushed a little more firmly into Steve's arms. “We got each other again though. No one's takin' me away from you ever again.”

“Promise?” Steve asked.

“I swear it, Steve. No one.” Bucky hugged him tightly. “C'mon, my sad boy. I love you, but I want to see what goodies you brought me,” he teased gently.

Steve smiled and kissed him, and finally let him go. He'd brought a few more books for the shelves, and some blank notebooks for both of them, to Bucky's obvious delight. Food took up the rest of the travois – mostly basics that would last the winter, but with a few bars of chocolate and some other goodies smuggled in.

Also, the single largest bottle of lube Bucky had ever seen in his life, and an accompanying box of condoms.

“ _Someone's_ got plans for the winter,” he noted, while Steve turned beet red.

“I did _not_ put that in there,” he protested.

“So you don't want to fuck me all winter?” Bucky asked sweetly.

“No! I mean yes! I mean. Oh God,” Steve moaned, head in his hands while Bucky cackled at him.

“So you want me to fuck _you_ all winter? Steven, you've gotten really bad at using your words.”

Steve paused his writhing on the floor, considered that, and flopped over onto his back with a moan. “Well  _now_ I do.”

Bucky giggled and poked him hard in the belly with the edge of the condom box. “Who's our sex fairy godmother then, hmm?”

“Oh, everyone probably.” Steve flushed. “I might have been a little. Um. Obnoxious. When I was getting better.”

“You? Never,” Bucky said dryly, but he took pity and leaned over to kiss Steve. “We can fuck _each_ _other_ all winter, okay?”

“Deal.” Steve smiled up at him, and Bucky helped himself to another kiss, then another, straddling Steve's hips. He started to roll his hips, gentle and light, and was rewarded with a beautiful moan.

“Just lie there for me, baby,” Bucky murmured, leaning over for another kiss. “Lie there and let me do this for you. He upped the friction, just a little bit, slipping his hands under Steve's shirt. “God, the feel of you. All those muscles, all of you just there for me to touch. Gonna kiss every inch of you, baby.”

Steve gasped and arched his back, and Bucky gentled him down a little more, still rolling his hips. His cock was hard and aching and he changed his angle just a little to press against Steve's cock, tenting the front of his sweatpants.

“Oh, look at you. Look how you want me,” Bucky murmured, while Steve made broken noises. “You want me so bad. D'you know how often I'd daydream about this? Lie in bed and wrap my hand around my cock and get myself off while I thought about you, then go for another round because I could, just thinkin' about your body under mine like it is right now.”

Steve  _wailed_ , dry-humping the air, trying to make contact with Bucky a little harder, a little stronger, but Bucky kept up a slow rhythm, trying to draw things out for at least  _one_ orgasm that day.

“I fuckin' love you so much,” he whispered, leaning over low to reach Steve's ear, then gently biting the soft shell of it. “That's it. That's my baby.” He ground down, harder this time, and felt Steve start to shake, kissed him through the orgasm, and moaned when Steve shoved his hands down Bucky's pants, kneading his ass. Bucky jerked, his cock sensitive and on-edge and then Steve _bit_ Bucky's collarbone while one hand wrapped around his cock, jerking him off, and Bucky saw stars the way he hadn't seen he was seventeen.

He came to to find Steve licking his own hand clean, and gave a low moan.

“Hah,” Steve said, and Bucky attacked him with kisses.

“You're doing the laundry,” Steve informed him when they'd slowed down, kissing more softly now.

“You sure? I bet I could look sweet and adorable and loving and keep you wrapped around my little finger for another day or two,” Bucky mumbled from where he was happily making Steve into a mattress.

“Bucky, you barely believe that I'm recovered from having been turned into Swiss cheese. You're _really_ gonna let me lift a finger for myself, until you're convinced I'm okay?”

“Point,” Bucky conceded, and kissed Steve's throat. “We're gonna be so bad at getting anything done for the next few days.”

“I'm okay with that.”

“Yeah, me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is dedicated to everyone who wants their own Therapy Hut right now.

Bucky was warm, the next morning. Not even fully awake, he knew he was warm. Maybe the snow insulated the little cabin.

He'd have to wake up soon and get through another day, but right now he could be warm.

“Shh, sleep a little longer.”

Oh, he was having a good dream. The kind of dream where he was with Steve. Steve was usually quiet, but this time he was murmuring in Bucky's ear the way he always used to.

Bucky snuggled further under the covers and into the soft pillows. This life wasn't so bad, with dreams of someone who loved him.

“That's my guy.”

The dream was so vivid, it felt like someone was touching his hair. Steve had used to wash Bucky's hair and brush it out, when Bucky couldn't do it so well on his own. That had been really nice.

“Oh, honey, no, don't cry. Wake up, Buck, it's just a bad dream. You're safe.”

No, no, that was all backwards – this dream was heaven, and waking up sucked, but the gentle shaking made him open his eyes.

Steve was sat up in bed, hand on Bucky's shoulder, gazing down at him in concern.

“Oh,” said Bucky, remembering yesterday, remembering that he had Steve now, that the dream wasn't a dream, that he'd fallen asleep in Steve's arms.

“You okay?” Steve somehow looked even _more_ worried as Bucky sat up and reached for a good-morning kiss.

“I'm fine,” Bucky told him, kissing Steve's neck.

“You were crying in your sleep.”

“Was I? I'm not, now.”

Steve laughed, and kissed back, and eventually they would be able to do something without it descending into lovemaking, but not just yet.

 

Afterwards, Bucky sat up on the bed, tracing little patterns along Steve's bare back, loving the little bumps of his spine and the lines of his muscles. Steve giggled when he hit a ticklish spot, so he hit is again, and yelped when Steve gave a lazy swipe at his arm.

“These are the superheroes protecting my country? Dear God. I'm gonna have to rethink my plans,” Bucky teased.

Steve gave him a dopey smile (the only kind of smile Steve had had for the last 24 hours, to be fair), and nuzzled his thigh. “What're your plans, love?”

Bucky added a little pressure to the back rub, just in case there were still knots lurking in Steve's shoulders. “Not fight. I'm sorry, but I can't.”

“And you don't have to,” Steve said firmly. He pressed a little more into Bucky's leg. “I'll miss havin' you at my back. But you've earned your peace.”

“Hmm.” Bucky stroked Steve's back. “We'll see. But Steve, I'm not just gonna sit around and live off your paycheck.”

“You could. I'd encourage it,” Steve teased. “Be my househusband.”

Bucky laughed out loud. “Get fat and happy and cook for you occasionally.”

“Yes.” Steve bit his thigh. “I like that idea a lot.”

Bucky giggled again. “Maybe. But I really don't want to just live off of you. I was thinkin'...” He hesitated. “I need to have your back. It's part of who I am. But there's ways I can do that without chargin' into battle.”

Steve smiled up at him, letting him go on.

“I don't know what I'll do exactly,” Bucky admitted. “I want to be an Avenger. But I don't want to fight. I want to protect you, but I can't...I can't be the sniper hidden in the trees anymore. I'm sorry.”

“You've given more than enough,” Steve said softly. “If you wanted to stay home and read and study and garden for the rest of your life, it would only be a small part of what you've earned.”

Bucky snorted.

“Uh huh, whatever jerk. You got a lawyer who agrees with me, and she's smarter than both of us put together.”

“That's...not difficult,” Bucky said tactfully, and grinned when Steve laughed. “Steve, honestly. I did those things, and they'll always be with me. I don't get to live a free life.”

“Maybe not.” Steve sat up and pulled Bucky into his arms, pressing a kiss to the curve of his neck. “But you get joy, and peace, and you get to live the way you want to. I swear, Bucky.”

“I don't deserve that, though,” Bucky argued. “I've been a weapon. I destroyed so much, and so many people have been hurt because of me. I remember them all.”

“There's so much good in you,” Steve said right back. “Jeez, Buck, I survived childhood 'cause of you.” He gave Bucky a little shake. “Look at you. Look at how you were, at the big house. As soon as you could, you were helping, you were being a friend, you were being so damn _good_ to everyone.” He smiled, and tapped Bucky's nose. “You couldn't stand on your own and you only had one arm, and you were still making Tati laugh and keepin' after me and helping Lisle cook. You're a good person, Bucky Barnes, and I'll make you see it.”

“God, you're the most fucking stubborn...” Bucky gave in and sighed. “I don't think I deserve all this. I don't deserve you. But I'll take it anyway.”

“I'll convince you,” Steve said, and kissed Bucky's forehead. “Stay here where it's warm. I'll build the fire up and make us breakfast.”

“You don't have to,” Bucky protested, even as Steve firmly tucked him back into bed. 

“You need some loving. Lie there and let me do for you,” Steve informed him, and got to work.

Bucky grumbled some for show, but it  _was_ nice and warm in the bed, and it was very cold in the cabin, and Steve hadn't remembered to get dressed yet, although at least he had some sense of self-preservation and put on pants while he build the fire up. He made them coffee and oatmeal, and Bucky had breakfast curled up next to his lover in bed, Steve right there to kiss and rest on and kiss some more whenever he wanted to.

“You're really okay?” Bucky asked, when they'd eaten their fill. He stroked Steve's hair and kissed his neck for good measure. 

“I am, I promise.” Steve snuggled into Bucky's arms and let himself be kissed again. “I would've been out here earlier, but I wanted to be there to make sure all the legal stuff got underway.”

“Yeah, Clint mentioned that. What's going on, exactly?”

“Clearing your name.” Steve's eyes were half-closed as Bucky petted him, and he was heavy and relaxed and smiling, exactly the way he always should be, Bucky thought to himself. “I mean, some of the stuff is easy, like declaring you legally alive and getting you access to bank accounts and stuff.” He wormed his arms around Bucky's waist. “But the big thing is going to be proving that you were the Winter Soldier under duress and mind-control and all that, and that you're not responsible for your actions.”

“What happens if _that_ happens?” Bucky asked, carefully not tightening his arms around Steve.

“You're free, love. Free as I am. Do whatever you like. Literally, by the way; you're pretty well-off.”

Bucky made a laugh-like sound. “And what happens if I'm found responsible?”

“We run. We leave the country and we flee until we find someplace you're safe,” Steve said promptly. “We keep running until you _are_ free, and we can be together.”

“I'd recommend appealing the decision first,” Bucky said weakly, and Steve laughed and pushed himself up to kiss him.

“I love you,” he said warmly, and with those bright blue eyes, with all that _Steveness_ believing in him, Bucky had to smile back. 

“I love you too. But Steve, this is serious. I might be found responsible.”

“Maybe. But probably not. Your attorney is brilliant. Your whole legal team is brilliant.” Steve kissed him softly. “Also, you're in the right here. You have to live with all your memories and everything you did and you're out of time and they took your arm and just – you're being punished already for a crime you never committed. No way we'll even make it to trial, darling.”

“You keep believing that for both of us, okay?” Bucky buried his face in Steve's hair. “It's not important right now, anyway.”

“Not this moment,” Steve agreed, and laughed when Bucky rolled them over, laying Steve out on the bed and starting to kiss down his chest. “Another round?”

“Yes. No. A round of loving on you,” Bucky decided. He pressed his face against Steve's side for a moment. “The last time I saw you, you were dying.”

“Oh, love. No, never,” Steve said softly, even as Bucky gathered him close. He went, though, and easily too. “Never going to leave you, Buck.”

“Shh. Don't make promises you can't keep.” Bucky pulled the blanket up over them. The wind was picking up outside.

“I missed you so bad,” Steve told Bucky's chest. “I wanted you there. Like I could be there for you.”

“I wanted to be there,” Bucky whispered. “I thought about you, love. Hoped and prayed and dreamed about you. I was there as much as I could be.” He started to stroke Steve's hair. “When I got news you were gonna make it...” He hugged Steve again, and went back to petting him. “I'll make up for it. Take care of you all winter. You'll rest and be loved and it'll be okay again.”

Steve chuckled softly. “Was thinkin' the same thing about you.” He sighed, and nuzzled Bucky's skin. “We'll make up for it.”

“Uh huh.” Bucky pulled the blanket a little higher. “Hey, I can read better now. My turn to read to you.”

Steve giggled at that. “I knew you'd do it.”

“I'll get a book in a bit,” Bucky promised. He was a little too drunk in love with the feeling of Steve on him, Steve letting Bucky take care of _him_ for once. Bucky doing what he ought to be, and being a good and equal partner. Everything else could wait.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shitting fuck y'all, I am so sorry. I really did not mean to ditch this story for so long! Somehow, I blame the election.
> 
> (Okay, literally, I sort of do. I needed to just write warm fuzzy things for awhile.)
> 
> The good news is that I've already got the next chapter done in a first draft, and the plot picks up considerably quite soon, so posting should be rather more regular. Thanks for sticking by me.

There weren't many advantages to being alone in a cabin in the middle of fucking nowhere, but being as loud as he goddamn wanted was one of them, as far as Bucky Barnes was concerned.

“Oh fuck. Oh, baby, yeah,” he informed any living creature for several hundred yards around the cabin. “Oh, Jesus. Stevie, your mouth, your goddamn _mouth_ yes, oh fuck, yes, like that, Jesus God, I'm gonna --”

“You're gonna lose your voice,” Steve observed, letting Bucky's cock go with a wet kiss and popping his head up from under the covers.

“Worth it,” Bucky rasped while he got his brain working again after Steve sucked it out through his cock.

Steve, because he was an asshole and had already come, just laughed and lay down, his head on Bucky's belly. “Whatever. Your turn to make breakfast, by the way.”

Bucky smiled down at him and stroked rough blonde hair, scritching a little to make sure Steve would stay still a little longer, heavy and warm on Bucky's legs. “I will. Just gimme a minute?”

“Of course.” Steve hugged Bucky's thighs and kissed his bellybutton, and sighed when Bucky kept stroking his hair.

Bucky gave one more little scritch before he hauled himself out of bed. He pulled on a light layer to take care of breakfast and warming the place up.

The two of them had something of a rhythm now, and Bucky fell into it that day, feeling strange and good to have a routine – one that involved a very physical, loving boyfriend, even. They took turns making breakfast, as often as not after a round of easy early-morning sex. They'd eat in bed together, then do dishes. Bucky's brain was at its best in the morning, so he sat and wrote in his journals. The one with good memories was full, so he was trying to make himself write the very bad ones down. They still needed to be captured, and as exhausted as it left him, it felt good to get it out. Well, goodish.

If it wasn't blizzarding, Steve went out to explore the landscape – sometimes something had been killed by the cold, and they had surprise rabbit for dinner. He stayed close to the cabin, but far enough that he couldn't hear Bucky's angry sobbing. Or, if he did hear, Steve had enough sense to give Bucky this little bit of space.

He always came back for lunch, usually carrying more wood from outdoors, and Bucky put his things away and went to get a kiss.  Which often turned into multiple kisses, the two of them holding each other in front of the warm stove, Bucky's face buried in Steve's neck if it was a particularly bad day, and Steve kissing down his face.

“I love you,” he whispered in Bucky's ear, every time. 

“Love you,” Bucky barely whispered back.

Lunch was quick, made without cooking if they could manage it, and then in the afternoon they would read, or make love, or watch snow fall together. Steve had brought a pack of cards, but neither of them found much interest in games, and sometimes Bucky's head ached too much anyway. ( _Those_ afternoons Steve made him lie down with his head in Steve's lap and listen to stories Steve remembered from when they were little.)

And some afternoons Bucky's head didn't ache at all, and they made out extravagantly, laughing and teasing and cuddling, and then Steve stretched out on the bed to sketch and Bucky sat at the table reading while the eternal winds whipped around the little cabin.

 

And this particular afternoon, Steve fell asleep (following a particularly nice orgasm, Bucky thought proudly to himself) and Bucky settled down with the battered copy of _Stranger in a Strange Land_ that had come from the big house. He felt pretty good about the state of his literacy, and tackling a familiar story might, possibly, maybe feel like he'd accomplished something that day. (Something _other_ than removing Steve's ability to think, form words, or do anything other than lie there and have cascading orgasms.)

“Are you insane?”

“Buh?” Steve snorted a little. He could be forgiven for waking up sort of abruptly, having just had a full-grown man – one sporting a very heavy metal arm, he might point out – land on him. “Buck, you okay?”

“No, I am not.”

Well _that_ got Steve to wake up, shooting upright in bed and taking Bucky's face in his hands, searching for what might be wrong. Was he hurt? A memory that wouldn't go away, a flashback,  danger coming for them in the little cabin? “What is it? What's wrong?”

Bucky made an impatient noise and shook Steve's hands off. “Steve, you utter numbnuts. I found that letter. The one you wrote last summer, and left in the book?” He wrapped his arms around Steve's shoulders. “How could you ever think you were a burden on me?”

“Because I was?” Steve was still sort of running on instinct, while he calmed down. “Oh, shit. The letter. Shit, Bucky, I'm sorry, I was just being this self-pitying asshole when I wrote that, you should ignore it. It's dumb.”

“No, it's not. It's something you felt. Something you still feel, I'm guessin'.” Bucky pressed his forehead to Steve's, nudging their noses together. “Oh, baby. You have never in your life been a burden. The way you love me has _particularly_ never been a burden. I can't believe you thought that.”

“Bucky...” Steve closed his eyes and caught his breath. It was suddenly harder than it should have been. 

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky breathed. “You're my joy. Loving you is the easiest thing I've ever done.”

Steve shook his head, but he also held onto Bucky even more tightly. “'m hard to take, I know. I been hard to take from when I was born. I was just trouble, always, for Mom and for you, and --”

“No, Steve,” Bucky interrupted. “Where do you get these ideas? Your mother loved you. _My_ mother loved you, quite possibly more than she loved me. I've loved you since I met you. How on earth could you be a burden?”

“Mom killed herself, working to keep me alive,” Steve choked out. “You _died_ because I couldn't catch you. Look at you now, you gotta put up with me because I don't have the sense to throw that shit out.”

“Your mother loved you,” Bucky countered. “You were the light of her life, Steve. I died because of a stupid accident – that's all. Because it was _my_ choice to follow you into war. We all chose to follow you, I still choose to follow you. Because it's my honor and my privilege to be by your side.”

Steve just made a wounded sound, and Bucky hugged him, tried to soothe with kisses, but Steve was still tense in his arms. “Oh, Stevie. I'm gonna convince you of this. That you will never be a burden, that you make me so happy.”

Steve laughed wetly, and coughed. “You got better things to do than convince me.”

“I don't.” Bucky smiled and kissed right between Steve's eyes. “Gonna make you believe it. Right, first step, repeat after me. 'Bucky Barnes loves me more than anything else in the universe.'”

Steve smiled. “Bucky Barnes has _serious brain injuries_.”

Bucky frowned at that, though, and gave Steve a little shake. “No. For once in both our lives, don't joke with me. Just this one time, Steve. Say it.”

“This is so dumb.”

“And?” Bucky asked. “Being dumb never stopped you before, kiddo.”

Steve bit his lip. “Bucky Barnes loves me more than anyth-thing else...” he trailed off. Fuck he could barely say the words, even, because they were so...true. They were so true it hurt, because in no way did he deserve that amount of love from a man that amazing.

“In the universe,” Bucky prompted softly.

“In the universe,” Steve barely managed, before he honestly felt something in his chest crack, and the tears came. He folded himself into Bucky's arms, weeping onto his shoulder, like everything that had ever hurt had to come out in that exact moment. All the time he'd had to be alone without Bucky – when he'd come out of the ice, the last few months when he'd come so close to death. All the times he hadn't fought death particularly hard, or at all, but still he was here, and still someone loved him fiercely. These things were always inside of him, and a bout of tears wouldn't cure them.

Bucky held him with such insane gentleness, like Steve was going to break at any moment. He murmured little nonsense things, shh-ing and soothing, but letting Steve cry himself out.

“Better?” he asked, when Steve finally stopped weeping much, much later.

“No,” Steve said. He was snotty and red-faced and teary and gross and his head hurt.

Bucky laughed and laid them both down on the bed, Steve still cuddled to his chest. “Yeah, emotions fuckin' suck.”

Steve nosed Bucky's shoulder a little. “Emotions  _do_ suck. Why'd you ever go back to 'em? You coulda been the Winter Soldier forever."

Bucky smiled against Steve's forehead. “Yeah, but then I wouldn't look at you and honestly believe in miracles.”

Steve groaned and gave him a shove. “Oh, fuck off.”

“Yeah, that's gross even for me,” Bucky agreed, but he kept his arms looped around Steve's shoulders. “Love you. That's worth everything. Being able to love.”

Steve sniffled, and hugged Bucky tight. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, and ruffled Steve's hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: in this chapter, there's a lot of discussion of mental health, with particular details about Steve's severe depression.

There was routine, and then there was falling into a horrible pattern. In a very few weeks, they had gone from one to the other.

 

Bucky wrapped the blanket more tightly around Steve and kissed his brow. “I'll go build up the fire,” he murmured. “Stay here, love, and be warm.”

Steve's teeth were chattering. “Ok-k-kay,” he managed, and huddled under the piled covers, their coats laid over them for another layer. It was bitter outside, but the cabin held heat well enough. The real trouble was the nightmares.

This was the fourth night in a row that Steve had relived putting the Valkyrie under the ice in his dreams. He usually woke up before the cold killed him – or didn't, as it turned out – but he always remembered the crash, the agony of healing bones and the icy water beginning to pour in and washing over him. He had passed out at the initial impact, Bucky gathered, but had come to before he iced over.

Bucky shared his body heat as best he could, kissed Steve and comforted him, made the little cabin warm, and made them tea even in the darkest hours of the night. Sometimes they watched the stars, unbelievably clear in the night sky.

Just once, Bucky had gotten dressed and gone outside, just to stand in the lunar landscape. The air was so cold it hurt to breathe, and everything was perfectly still and silent, even the wind calmed for the night. He walked as far from the cabin as he dared and looked up and let the frozen indifference of the universe pour down around him. It had been the most peaceful thing he'd done in months, if not ever, but Steve worried, and he worried about Steve, and most nights he was content to stay in bed, soothing his lover.

Most nights, he had his own nightmares to worry about. He didn't tell Steve much about them, but they were getting worse. Bloodier, and more often, and genuinely terrifying. He hadn't woken up screaming yet, but he'd wake up shivering, and have to be gentled back to himself.

They muddled through. Snatching sleep where they could, taking care of each other as best they could. The cracks were beginning to show, though.

 

Bucky had gone down into the cellar to check the woodworking tools and sharpen an axe. They were going through firewood at an impressive rate; there was enough deadfall that he could gather to top up the depleting pile, but they were going to have to come up with another solution soon. One that didn't involve being warm enough, he reluctantly suspected.

The sound of something hitting the floor, and Steve swearing loudly, had Bucky scrambling up into the pantry, then into the main room, the axe still in one hand.

“I'm fine,” Steve said, hand around his wrist, clutching it tightly. Blood was leaking down his forearm. “I was doing the dishes didn't realize the knife was so sharp and...yeah.”

“Yeah,” Bucky sighed, and went over, gently moving Steve's hand out of the way. He winced – blood was welling up out of a gaping cut in his wrist. A deep one. “Shit.”

“Tell me about it,” Steve said bitterly.

Bucky sighed and went to find some clean cloths. Steve's body would heal itself soon enough, but it was annoying to have bloodstains all over everything. And 'speeded-up healing' was not the same thing as 'doesn't feel pain', as much as Steve tried to pretend.

“Oh well,” Bucky sighed, wrapping Steve's arm tightly. “'Least you'll heal. Lucky you aren't a normal human being.”

“If I was normal I _really_ wouldn't be here,” Steve said bitterly.

“No,” Bucky said quietly. “I guess not.” He tried to smile. “Neither would I. If you were normal, I mean.”

Steve bowed his head.

“Oh for fuck's sake, you know I mean _alive_ , not in my pretty frozen prison,” Bucky said, exasperated.

Steve smiled bitterly at him. “Hooray for both of us, then.”

Bucky, who had been kneeling by the chair, rocked back on his heels. “Not that I have the ability to do anything about it right now, but how suicidal  _are_ you?” he asked.

“I'm not, really,” Steve said after a long pause. “I'm sorry. I got nothin' to complain about. I'm glad I'm here now.”

“Really? 'Cause I got plenty to bitch about,” Bucky said to make Steve smile. He did, though. “Hey,” he said more quietly. “I'm sorry I can't do much to help. For what it's worth, I'm pretty glad we're _both_ alive.”

“You do so much,” Steve assured him, and leaned over to kiss Bucky softly. “I'm sorry too. You should have better care.”

“Yeah, but if wishes were fishes...”

Steve smiled, and shrugged his agreement. This situation, which had been a cozy, wonderful treat full of sex and eating and touching for the first few days was...not good, now. Not anymore.

 

It wasn't all bad all the time, of course. They had baths, for one thing.

Considering the total ball-ache that was bathing, Steve and Bucky agreed to limit themselves to a weekly bath; not too different from when they were kids. And, on that basis – plus the fact that they were hardly going to be hitting the bars and clubs instead – they picked Saturday nights.

It was an hours-long affair, really. First they filled the big tub with snow. It melted by the fire over the course of the afternoon, and made enough water to fit in their biggest pot, topped up with a little more snow that quickly melted away. (The pipes had long ago frozen over; water now came from outside, or none at all. Bucky tried not to think about what would happen if there weren't fresh snowstorms regularly.)

The water heated through by the time dinner was over, and they played a quick game of rock-paper-scissors to determine who got to go first.

And then whoever went second accused the other of cheating.

And the accused accused his accuser of something similarly vile, like not airing their clothes out and instead leaving them in a heap on the floor I  _know_ you were raised better than that, Steven Rogers.

After which the accuser would flounce over the bed in a huff, and the accused – it was nearly always Bucky, because Steve  _always_ chose rock, presumably for the resemblance to his head – would strip down.

Sometimes he did this quickly, efficiently. Sometimes he was less quick about it; a little more graceful and enticing. They were going to bathe anyways, might as well have something to wash off.

(Sweat and come streaking their bodies and tangling the bed covers made bath night all the better, in Bucky's opinion.)

On the really fun nights, it was long after the sun set, long after their supper, that Bucky lay in Steve's arms and kissed him tenderly. Then once more for luck. Then a third time because he could.

“Go get cleaned up,” Steve told him, kissing his hairline. “You won tonight.”

“I win every time,” Bucky said smugly, and giggled when Steve curled over to kiss his chest, lap at his nipples. “You're just provin' my point.”

“Get,” Steve said, with a smart slap to Bucky's bottom. So Bucky got. He got to slinking over Steve to the other side of the bed, and got to 'slipping on the covers' so he collapsed onto Steve's legs and kissed his cock, finally worn out, through the light sheet tangled around them. He got to rolling the rest of the way and wiggling his ass when he got another smack, the sound of it bright and sharp in the cozy room.

He filled a smaller pan with hot water and stood in the big washtub. Not even pretending not to pose for Steve, Bucky poured the warm water over himself. He went slow, careful to soak his hair and wet his skin, but not waste any.

Next came soap, lathering easily, and Bucky scrubbed himself from top to toe, washing his hair and going at his body with soap and a bit of clean burlap until his skin glowed. All of this was done under Steve appreciative gaze, and then Bucky rinsed with another panful of hot water, getting the soap out of his hair and leaving his skin clean and soft.

He dried off with the towel they shared and quickly got dressed in clean pajamas.

Next it was Steve's turn. He emptied the dirty water first, then copied Bucky's process. There was always, very carefully, more water for him, and Steve reveled in the extra pan-ful of hot water rinsing his skin clean. He dried off as well and got dressed, and climbed into bed beside Bucky, snuggling close.

“Another week gone,” Bucky said softly, and kissed Steve. It had been a Saturday when he'd arrived.

“Mmm.” Another kiss. “I'll take care of the water. And the lights.”

“Thanks.” Bucky was half-sleepy, half wide awake, feeling wild and sweet after sex that had left him howling, and a scrubdown that left him feeling almost like himself again. He watched Steve throw the water out of the door, quick-quick-quick to keep the heat in, and watched him bank the fire in the stove, and dozed while he turned out the big overhead light and crawled into bed beside Bucky.

“It's a long time until spring,” Steve said.

“Yeah.” Bucky squirmed out of Steve's arms and lay on his side, facing his lover, just barely able to make out the gleam of Steve's eyes in the dark. “A really long time.”

“We won't be okay if we wait that long,” Steve said quietly. “Neither of us.”

“No,” Bucky agreed, just as quietly. “We won't. I...I can't. I can't bear this alone. And you can't help me with it. Not all of it, anyway.”

Steve nodded. “I can't be trapped here until spring,” he said softly. “And you shouldn't be. It's not right. This is a beautiful prison, but you don't deserve prison.”

“We have to leave,” Bucky said. “Soon.”

“Soon,” Steve agreed. “We'll figure something out. But we can't stay here.” He touched Bucky's face, tracing his cheekbone. “I need help. For depression. And feeling trapped. And the dreams.”

“I can't be who you need yet,” Bucky said softly. “I need more help too. It wasn't enough, what I got.”

“You're exactly who I need,” Steve said. “But I need you to be my boyfriend. Not my therapist.”

“Same,” Bucky agreed, and took a deep breath. There was so much _emptiness_ around them, it was hard to believe that civilization lay on the other side of that vast expanse. There were cities, and people they both loved, and who loved them. There was help, there was freedom. Fuck, there were real baths and food and gas stoves and more than one lightbulb.

“Tomorrow,” Steve said, “we start to plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hooray for building up a chapter buffer! Next chapter should go up next week. I'm hoping to keep one or two chapters ahead for the rest of the story (which...isn't really in sight, yet, but it's *more* in sight now?)
> 
> dietraumerei.tumblr.com come hang out with meeeee


	14. Chapter 14

“Hiking to civilization is out,” Bucky said. “I assume.”

“You assume right,” Steve agreed. “We _might_ survive  beyond a few days, if it were a mild winter and neither of us were horrifically triggered by the cold. But it isn't mild, and we are, so on foot is out.”

“Where _are_ we, incidentally?” Bucky asked curiously. “I was reckoning somewhere in the Midwest?”

“South Dakota. Even I don't know exactly where,” Steve admitted.

“Probably the middle of some protected land,” Bucky guessed. “There aren't even planes overhead, really.”

Steve sighed. “Okay, so we can't just walk out. And we don't have any way to communicate with the other Avengers.”

“We might, actually,” Bucky said slowly. “ _Someone's_ keeping track of if I'm still alive.”

“The tracker?” Steve asked, and touched his own sternum. “Yeah, I got one too.” He smiled. “What're you gonna do, get your heartbeats to spell out something in Morse code?”

Bucky kicked him under the table. “Fuck you. But look, what would have happened if, I dunno. I had died? An accident or something. Someone would definitely notice if my heart stops beating.”

Steve frowned hard. “If that happened, an Avenger would check on you. As soon as possible, in case you were. Were savable.”

Bucky nodded. “So, what if--”

“ _No_ ,” Steve said harshly. “Absolutely not.”

“For fuck's sake, it'll get someone out here! You can absolutely jack the QuinJet, and it's not like it's easy to kill me!”

“No,” Steve repeated, a note of pleading in his voice. “Bucky, no. Don't make me watch you die _again_.”

This pulled Bucky up short, and he closed his mouth, all ready to argue.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

They were both silent for a long time, broken only by the  _thump_ of some snow falling off of the roof.

“I'm sorry,” Bucky said. 

“Yeah, well.” Steve coughed and looked away. “I fuckin' _can't_. First I watched you fall, then I saw you lookin' like a skeleton in that hospital bed, then...” He trailed off, crossing his arms and turning his whole body to look out the window.

Bucky got up from his chair and walked the few steps to the other side of the table. “Hey,” he said softly, and Steve looked up, eyes dark with emotion.

“Hey,” Bucky repeated, and Steve uncrossed his arms so Bucky could settle in his lap, straddling his legs and his arms around Steve's shoulders. “I'm here, baby. Right here. Gimme a hug.”

“Shut up,” Steve mumbled, but his arms wrapped around Bucky's waist just the same.

“Shhh. I'm sorry, baby,” Bucky murmured in Steve's ear. “I'm so sorry you had to see me like that, over and over. I'm _so_ sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Steve said.

“Still sorry,” Bucky murmured. “When I watched you go down, watched you bleeding out, it was like my whole heart was pulled out my body, and I was watching everything end. You hadda do that too, watch me fall, then watch me fight for life. It's fucking bullshit, and neither of us should have had it happen.”

Steve coughed again, and nodded. “How should it have happened?” he asked.

Bucky smiled and kissed Steve's cheek. “We should have come home from the war, both of us. Come back to the US. Or hell, gone to live in London, 'cause you'd've married Peggy, obviously.”

Steve started at that. “But you--”

“Hey, hey, I'm tellin' the story here. I'd've lived too.” Bucky smiled. “And while I'm making a wishlist, I'd still have the same two arms I was born with.” He settled back down, murmuring in Steve's ear. “So you and Peggy get married. I'm your best man, obviously. And we settle somewhere pretty. Lady's' choice. And I come with you 'cause I'm your best friend, why wouldn't I? Also,” he said softly. “I'm in love with you.”

Steve started again, and Bucky kissed him quiet. “And I think you were in love with me, too, we were just a little busy and a lot dumb as shit. But we're in love. And I think Peggy's an understanding lady. I think she could be. And I think I could fall in love with her, too, and she'd probably put up with me. And...we'd all three of us. We'd have a life together.”

“She understood you better'n I ever did,” Steve said quietly. 

“See? You have good taste.” Bucky closed his eyes and held Steve tight. “And we all live together, get a nice house. Maybe you and Peg have a few kids, maybe not. Maybe...maybe me and Peg have a few kids.” Bucky paused and breathed deeply, then continued. “Maybe we get a dog, or a cat. But we live our lives, live 'em out together, in the time God made for us. That's how it was _supposed_ to be. But it wasn't, and it isn't, and we had to watch each other dying, and it's fuckin' wrong.”

“ It's so goddamn unfair,” Steve agreed, holding Bucky back just as tight. “It's so fucking  _ unfair _ .” He shook his head. “When this is over...we're both takin' time. I've been fighting for years, and I'm never gonna stop. But  _ you're _ gonna stop, and I'll take a break and we're gonna go somewhere. Somewhere beautiful, where there's no war, and we're just gonna live and do what we want. Go out for coffee every morning, see every piece of art in the Met, or the Louvre, or whatever.”

“ That's sounds really nice,” Bucky said softly. “Take a break. A real one, not this prison. See beautiful things and have fun and make love and just...stop fighting.” He fought back sudden tears. “For one goddamn tiny space of time, we stop  _ fighting _ .”

Steve nodded, and kissed him hard, and they didn't need to speak for a little while after that.

 

That night, Bucky paused while getting changed, and touched his belly, right where the tracker had been injected. “Okay, I have an idea that doesn't involve me dying.”

Steve snorted. “I'd fucking hope so.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, and pulled on a shirt, then a sweater. They were trying to conserve firewood, which meant bundling up good for bed. “How good are you at surgery?”

“ I'm not?” Steve tried, and narrowed his eyes as he climbed into bed. “What are you thinking?”

“ The tracker's attached to the underside of my sternum, right?” Bucky said. “Not too far up, maybe an inch or two?”

“ Ye-es,” Steve said slowly.

“ So cut me open and scrape it off. Throw it out in the snow, I don't care. But that'll  _ damn _ well get someone's attention.”

“ No,” Steve said immediately. “There's too much that could go wrong.”

“ Like what?” Bucky crawled under the covers and sat up, looking down at his lover. “It's pretty hard to accidentally kill me, and it's not like I'm gonna get an infection. You'll just be making a little slit in my stomach, and reaching up, finding the thing, and going at it with a knife.”

Steve blanched. “No.”

“ Yes. Steve, you know it's our best chance. And even I'm not hard-core enough to do it to myself.”

Steve sighed loudly. “I don't like it.”

“ Sorry, you think I'm in love with the idea of you doing gut surgery on me on our kitchen table?” Bucky shook his head. “We gotta get somebody's attention, and this'll do it. And it'll hurt, yeah, and be, uh, kinda messy, but there's not  _ that _ much that can go wrong. You're not gonna be, like, stabbing me in the chest.”

Steve made a face. “I  _ really _ don't like it.”

“ I don't much care, to be honest,” Bucky said impatiently. “You got a better idea?”

“ Not right  _ now _ ,” Steve said. He pulled Bucky down to lie beside him. “Gimme a few days. I want a plan that doesn't involve bloodshed.” A soft kiss. “Not yours, anyway.” Another kiss, brushing across Bucky's stubble. “And no pain, either.”

“ You fuckin' softy,” Bucky murmured, but he tilted Steve's chin up and kissed him back. “I want us free. You  _ really _ don't deserve this.”

“ Neither do you,” Steve came back with.

“ Shut the fuck up,” Bucky advised, and kissed him under the chin, soft and openmouthed. “I'm a killer. I got so much to make up for. But you're a hero, you were just too dumb not to fall in love with me.”

“ _ You _ shut the fuck up,” Steve said, flipping them so that he lay on top of Bucky, framing Bucky's face with his forearms. “You're a hero too.” A searing kiss. “You were a war hero before I ever made it to the front.” Another. “What was done to you isn't your fault. You have to  _ live _ with it, but you don't gotta  _ pay _ for it.” He nibbled the soft skin under Bucky's ear, something that always made him gasp and moan, his hips automatically arching up. “You don't owe the world shit, baby.”

“ Steve...”

“ I'll shut up if you shut up,” Steve offered, and Bucky gave a shaky laugh, his legs parting so that Steve lay between his thighs, their cocks swelling against each other.

“ You've never shut up in your life,” Bucky said.

“ So make me,” Steve said.

“ Oh for fuck's sake,” Bucky groaned, while Steve laughed at himself, but they were kissing, more and more intense ly now. Not frantic – they had all the time they ever could want – but deep openmouthed kisses.

Bucky slipped his hands under the layers Steve wore and caressed his back, massaging the broad muscles there. “I love you,” he breathed into Steve's ear.

Steve's response was to duck under the covers and pull down the waistband of Bucky's sweatpants. He left the elastic band pressing on the tender space where cock and balls came together, and Bucky made a sound at the sensation.

Steve's mouth was warm and soft around the head of his cock, and Bucky made little sounds of encouragement when he remembered to, but mostly he moaned, loving the slow, slow descent of Steve's mouth, the way his tongue swirled, soft suction and his hands on Bucky's hips, reaching up to massage Bucky's stomach with this thumbs, rubbing the soft rounding that had only barely begun to appear. Gripping the thickness of his waist hard as he took the last of Bucky's length, and gentled him through an orgasm that rippled through his body so deliciously.

“Oh, baby. Yes,” Bucky breathed when Steve came up for air, and for kisses. Bucky could taste himself, and it was so easy to reach between them, twist his wrist, snicker because he was using his left hand and Steve was, quite frankly, a slut for it even if he'd die before admitting that.

“I got you, love,” Bucky murmured, curling silver fingers around hot skin. “I got you, Steve. Always, forever. I love you forever.” Almost-nonsense phrases, but also true ones, and ones that made Steve cry out and kiss Bucky hard.

“You ain't alone,” Bucky whispered. “Nothing's taking me from you again. You won't ever be alone again.” He kiss the tears on Steve's cheek. “Love you, honey, always.” A lingering, tender kiss, even as his hand still worked Steve over, and he ducked under the covers to finish him off with his mouth. (And, the practical part of him decided, to save on possible laundry.)

The strength of Steve's orgasm surprised them both – definitely Bucky, who lapped and swallowed, a little impressed at the volume. And the time Steve was taking. When the last of his shudders had died away, Bucky put him back to rights and wriggled up to lay his head right next to Steve's, gathering him close.

“You okay?” he murmured, stroking hair the glowed even in the weak moonlight.

Steve nodded and made a small sound, and Bucky gathered him a little closer. “Don't you mind anything,” he said tenderly, quietly very excited at what he'd managed to reduce his lover to. “I'll take care of you tonight. You cuddle up and drift off, love. I've got you.”

Steve made a softer, more agreeable sound, and settled his head on Bucky's shoulder, arms around his waist.

Bucky stroked his back until he was sure Steve was asleep, and then finally let himself drift off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see plot! Plot on the horizon!
> 
> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to forewarn you, there's a fair amount of body horror in this chapter, and it sort of veers towards straight-up horror at the end. Details in end notes if you want to pre-prepare yourself.

“So? Have you thought about my idea?” Bucky had at least waited until they were done breakfast. It was snowing again, but they were saving on wood so lots of layers were involved, and a hot breakfast was becoming a necessity.

“Yes, and it's still a terrible one,” Steve said.

Bucky made a face at him, and Steve made a face back.

“You got a better idea?”

“Not yet.” Steve sighed. “Look, I'll make a deal with you, baby. If I can't come up with something good by tomorrow morning, we'll do your idea.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. This was awfully reasonable from Steve, and he told him so.

“This is the thanks I get for being sensible?” Steve grinned at him. “Look. I _hate_ the idea of hurting you, and even if nothing at all went wrong, I would seriously be hurting you.” He walked over to where Bucky was drying the dishes and wrapped his arms around his lover from behind, nuzzling his neck. “You've been through so much, and I never want to have to see you lying on our kitchen table, bleeding. I never want to have to be the one to do that.”

“But it'll save us both. Get us out of here.” Bucky turned around and hugged Steve right back, putting his hand to the back of Steve's head and urging it to rest on his shoulder. “What's the first thing you want to do, when we're free?”

Steve swayed them a little to an invisible rhythm. “Get a really long, hot bath.”

Bucky giggled. “Yeah. Where would we go, though?”

“That I _do_ know,” Steve said. “Howard had a house in Nevada  out in the middle of the desert. It's still there. I don't think Tony even knows about it, so we can really keep things quiet.”

“But no one else bought it?”

Steve shook his head. “I checked the records before I left. It's still Stark property, but no one's been there in years. Maybe not even since Howard died.”

“Huh.” Bucky nuzzled Steve's neck, and danced them in a slow circle around the glowing stove. “It's going to be garish as fuck, isn't it?”

“Oh my God, yes.” Steve switched their arms around so he was leading. “But it will, hopefully, not be connected. Not even to JARVIS.”

“You don't trust Tony?”

“I don't trust _anyone_ ,” Steve said flatly.

“Ha. Fair.” Bucky rested his head on Steve's shoulder and let him set the rhythm and the steps. For the moment. “I want to make sure the girls are okay. Especially Sarah. She got hurt bad.”

“I know they're all alive,” Steve said quietly. “Beyond that, not a peep, from anyone. They're safe, though. And if Sarah's alive, she'll be okay. She can survive anything.”

Bucky smiled and nodded. “I hope they're not too mad at me.”

“ _What_?” Bucky could practically _hear_ the record scratch as Steve suddenly stopped in his tracks. “What are you talking about? They'd never be mad at you.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “If I hadn't been there, they would have their home. Sarah wouldn't be hurt.”

“Tati wouldn't have her grand-uncle,” Steve countered. “Lisle wouldn't burst into hysterical laughter at the words 'mango rum' which, I _still_ want to know what the hell that in-joke is. And Sarah wouldn't have had someone to sass her, and respect her, and to take care of.”

Bucky rolled his eyes again. “That really, really does not make up for SHIELD invading their own. I'm not worth what they've gone through.”

“What happened is Brady's fault, not yours,” Steve argued, his hands closing around Bucky's shoulders. “I'm serious. No part of that was your fault. I promise you, on Mam's grave, none of those women will ever be angry at you. They love you too much.”

Bucky filed away the word 'love' to deal with literally never. “Jesus, Steve, I thought you were more realistic than this.”

“I am perfectly realistic.” Steve cupped Bucky's face in his hands. “They all adore you.” He smiled, trying to tease. “Way more than they love me, although I won't make promises about Sam.”

“Hah.” Bucky tried to smile for his boyfriend, but also shook his hands off and went back to their silent dancing, his turn to lead this time. “I love them too,” he said quietly. “I just want them to be safe, and healthy. Can we find that out, when we get out? I'm not ready to face them yet, I just...want to know.”

“We'll find out,” Steve promised him, stroking his hair. “We'll make sure they're safe and okay.”

Bucky nodded, and twirled Steve.

 

* * *

 

“I have an idea,” Steve said.

“Okay.” Bucky sat up and set his book aside. They were both sitting up in bed, cuddling together under the blankets for warmth, for all that it was only mid-afternoon.

“You pull out my tracker the way you explained. Mine's in the same place.”

Bucky gave him a dirty look. “How is this better?”

Steve held his ground. “Because I say it is. Because you're stronger than me at stuff like this. Because you know as well as I do that to some people, if you die, it's convenient. If I die, a lot of people are truly fucked.” Steve looked like the words tasted bad in his mouth.

“Huh. I mean, you're right, I just never expected you to admit that,” Bucky said, and smiled. “Hey, stop looking like that. I know I'm important to you, you dumbass.”

“You should be important, period,” Steve said sourly, and then brightened. “So you admit I'm right?”

Bucky sighed loudly. “ _Yes_ . Ugh. Fine, I will fucking do surgery on you on our kitchen table so we can get out of this hellhole.”

Steve kissed him. “You know it's the best way.”

“I hate you.”

Steve grinned. “I'll get bandages, you sharpen a knife.”

“I should throw you out in the snow after the fucking tracker,” Bucky idly threatened.

“You wish,” Steve said, practically bouncing out of bed.

“Wait, think this through first,” Bucky cautioned. “This isn't nothing. Write down where you want us to go, and we'll prep go-bags _now_. I don't want to have to pack and take care of you at the same time.”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, good point. Pack what you want to bring with you and I'll write out directions. I remember the lat-long, too.”

Bucky pulled out a backpack and put his journals into it, and the hat he'd knitted and the mittens he was working on. Some underwear and a spare shirt, and he set his coat beside it.

Steve wrote out the address and pinned it to Bucky's bag, then filled his own while Bucky took their sharpest kitchen knife and honed it to perfection. He built the fire up and boiled snow, and cut up an undershirt for bandages.

“Ready?” Steve asked.

“No,” Bucky said, and set his jaw. “Lie on the table, asshole.”

“See, you totally want to stab me now,” Steve said.

“Not. Funny,” Bucky ground out.

“Hey, pause.” Steve wrapped his hands around Bucky's. “This isn't like the helicarrier. You're not hurting me on purpose. I'll heal in an hour or two, most likely.” 

“It's not right,” Bucky said. “I don't want to hurt you at all. I shouldn't. It's not _right_.”

“No, but when has anything gone right for us?”

Bucky gave him a watery smile. “You mean other than the part where we finally wound up together, and we actually love one another?”

“Hah.” Steve leaned in and kissed him tenderly. “I love you, James Barnes. This won't change that. You're doing what you have to, to keep us both safe. I'll be fine. I trust you.”

Bucky took a deep breath, but all he said in return was, “I love you too.”

Steve took off his shirt (and sweater, and undershirt) and lay down on the table, already breathing slowly and carefully.

Bucky held the knife in the fire for a count of fifteen, then wiped Steve's belly down with clean water and took a deep breath. “Okay?”

“Go for it, love.”

Bucky nodded and rested the point of the knife on Steve's stomach, just below his breastbone, and angled it up. He started to push, the sharp blade cutting easily through skin, and a little less easily through tough muscle.

At the first sensation, Steve breathed deeply, but he didn't cry out, only flexed his hands and stayed as still as he could while Bucky continued to glide the knife into his flesh.

As soon as he was deep enough, Bucky pulled the knife out and set it down. “Okay,” he said, and reached in with his flesh hand. His finger eased into the gash in Steve's belly, blood flowing freely around it.

_The Soldier_

_The Captain_

_Mission_

_The man on the bridge._

_Kill him._

_Blood._

_Blood against uniform._

_Blood against fair skin._

Bucky was faintly aware that his body had pulled away, thrown itself across the room. Was vaguely aware that he was screaming, but it was so far away, compared to the technicolor in his mind, of what Steve's blood meant of what him  _stabbing Steve_ meant, of how close that was to his orders because he was still the Soldier, would never stop, ever, was a killer for the rest of his days –

Bucky came to as he was vomiting. Steve at least had the sense to shove him half out the door so that he threw up outside, and the bitter cold helped.

He spat, ate a handful of snow, and spat again before coming inside and shutting the door.

“Better?” Steve asked. He was holding a pad of fabric to his belly, and blood was everywhere.

“No,” Bucky said, and coughed. “Shit.”

“Tell me about it,” Steve said.

“Are you okay? I mean, despite the obvious?” Bucky asked, stripping his shirt off. He'd been sick on himself, and it was disgusting.

“Uh huh. It's already closing up.”

Bucky came over, kneeling by Steve but well out of reach, and Steve peeled the fabric away. The blood was oozing now, but his stomach was still smeared with red, and his jeans were a total write-off.

Bucky nodded, and scrubbed at his eyes. “I'm sorry.”

“Me too. I should never have asked that of you.” Steve shook his head. “You've been through too much, and to ask that...I'm so sorry.”

Bucky snorted. “I'm the one too fucked up to finish the job.”

“You're the one who's been through hell so many times over,” Steve corrected him, and they glared at each other.

“I'll melt more snow so we can wash you down,” Bucky said, heaving himself up and grabbing a big pot to fill outside. The wind was getting worse, and the temperature was lower than ever as the sun set.

By the time he'd finished heating the water, Steve's stomach was nearly healed, and he had changed into clean sweatpants. Bucky had pulled on a shirt in deference to the weather, and he wet down a washcloth in the hot water and gently cleaned Steve's stomach off.

“Hey,” Steve said softly as Bucky wrapped his belly up, holding a pad of fabric over the healing wound. “Hey, love. Can I get a hug?”

Bucky nodded and went into Steve's arms, and refused to cry. He had in no way earned tears, even though Steve was holding him tightly and rubbing his back.

“It's okay,” Steve murmured. “I got you, baby. What a shitty day.”

Bucky sniffled and nodded, cautiously wrapping his arms around Steve's waist and hugging him. “You gotta do it to me tomorrow, Steve. You  _got_ to. I can't be here any longer, I'm fucked in the head, it's not good.”

“Neither of us can be here any longer.” Steve pulled back and met Bucky's eyes. “Tomorrow. I promise.”

Bucky took a deep breath and nodded. “Go lie down, I'll heat up dinner. You need to eat.”

“So do you,” Steve said, but he went to lie down in their bed. They ate quietly, and Bucky cleaned up before crawling in beside his lover.

“All healed,” Steve said, and smiled sadly. “Just tired.”

“Yeah. Today sucked.” Bucky came up with a smile from somewhere. “Sorry.”

“Ain't got nothing to be sorry about,” Steve said, and pulled him in for a hug and a long kiss. “C'mon. We'll both feel better after we've slept awhile.”

Bucky nodded and got up to shut off the lights, then nestled right back in Steve's arms. “Tomorrow we'll take my tracker out, and be free.”

“Uh huh. You'll be free, love, and be able to get help, and live a better life,” Steve promised.

“'n you won't be stuck here with me,” Bucky mumbled, already half-asleep. Having a PTSD attack took it out of you.

“Shh. I'll be with you, that's all I want,” Steve soothed. “Go to sleep, love. That's it.”

Bucky fell asleep to Steve's soft voice, half-dreaming when he heard Steve apologize, not sure what he was saying sorry for.

 

It was deep into the night when Bucky awoke with a start, stirred by nothing. He reached out, but the bed was empty.

“Steve?” he called, but there was no reply.

He was cracking up. He was insane. He'd been alone all this time and just dreamed that Steve was there –

No. There was the note, in Steve's handwriting, and their bags, ready to go. There was the blood all over the floor and the table.

And Steve's coat.

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky bellowed, and tried not think of what this might mean as he switched on the light, the room silent and empty.

“No. No, no, no, no, you stupid fucking --” He opened the door and winced at the bonecracking cold. “Steve!”

Of course there was no reply. The fucknugget would have started to freeze in minutes. Bucky stepped out, frantically scanning the blessedly still night and – oh.

Steve hadn't even gone far. He was sitting just to the side of the door, against the house. His face was a terrifying, dead blue-white, the tips of his cheeks already dusky, the tissue dying. He was wearing sweatpants and a light shirt, and Bucky was going to kill him.

“No. You fuckhead, you idiot, no, _no_.” Steve had been smart enough to sit on a dry blanket, so at least he wasn't frozen to the ground, and Bucky lifted him awkwardly, his limbs frozen in place, and dragged him through the door into the cabin, slamming the door shut behind him.

“I swear to God, if you're dead,” he threatened.

It was horrible. Steve was frozen sitting upright, his eyes closed, his face peaceful. Ice crystals had formed on his eyelashes and around his mouth, but he must have started to freeze suddenly, and rapidly. It had only been a few hours – perhaps.

Bucky set Steve by the fire, and pulled his stonelike body to his chest, bracketing Steve's legs with his, and pressing his face into the icy, hard shoulder. “Please don't die,” he asked quietly. “Please, love. Don't leave me.”

He sat, and waited for the sound of a QuinJet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details: Bucky does minor surgery on Steve without anasthesia to remove his tracker, including pushing his fingers into Steve's body, which results in Bucky having something of a breakdown. And at the end of the chapter, Steve freezes himself to trigger help, and Bucky finds his frozen body and cuddles with it in front of the fire.
> 
> Actual note: Hi guys! I love you!
> 
> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you ever wonder why you bother commenting: I mean, in addition to literally, actually making my day, I did a rapid rewrite of this chapter this morning, to account for the feedback I got. I leave it as an exercise to the reader if that can be understood as making the story kinder, or not... ;)

Steve came to slowly. First was a sensation of pressure – he was wrapped in something. Something very warm, that didn't quite touch the core of cold in his body that he was going to studiously ignore, but...warm. Painfully so, but something must have happened because very soon a delicious feeling flooded his body and he didn't care about the agony in his skin, in his hands and feet.

Ah. So there were drugs, and heated blankets, which meant, yes, he could hear the hum of the QuinJet. Good; he was out of that cabin, which meant, if anyone knew what was good for them, Bucky would be out of the cabin too.

Steve struggled to open his eyes, feeling weak and hazy.

“Hey Bucky, he's waking up.”

_Sam_ . Oh thank God, Sam had found them.

“I can accidentally open the bay door for a few minutes if you need to accidentally drop-kick him out of it.”

Sam and his sense of humor. They were going to be fine, everything was going to be fine.

He heard Bucky's hoarse laugh, and it occurred to Steve that Bucky might, possibly, not be one hundred percent happy with him at the moment.

Steve didn't give a shit, actually. They were free, and he was right – he wasn't gonna die. So there, Barnes.

“Hey baby.” The sensation of a kiss on his forehead, and Steve definitely felt his core temperature go up a degree.

Steve smiled and tried to turn his head.

“Oh, you are awake.” A sharp, indrawn breath, and Bucky's hand running through his hair, and everything was perfect. They were free and Bucky was with him, and Sam would protect them.

Steve forced his eyes open, and blinked a few times. Everything was fuzzy, but he could make out Bucky. He looked exhausted. Steve smiled at him.

Bucky smiled back. “I am so unbelievably furious at you right now,” he said quietly, tenderly. “How fucking dare you.”

Steve met his eyes, not backing down. “Needed to,” he said, and it felt like he'd gargled glass.

“Never. You never need to...for me.”

“ _Did_ ,” Steve insisted, and closed his eyes, a wave of pain and dizziness going through him.

“Shhh. We'll fight when you're up to it,” Bucky murmured, and kissed Steve's brow again. “Rest, baby. You're gonna be fine, and we'll be in the desert soon. It'll be okay.”

Well, of course it would. Steve had survived, which he had been  _pretty_ sure about, and they were free. Bucky could get the help he needed, and they'd have a little hide-out courtesy Howard Stark, and they'd be okay.

Steve drifted off then, and didn't wake up until the sound of the QuinJet landing had him opening his eyes, feeling rather more clear-headed.

Clear-headed, but weak as a kitten, as he learned when he couldn't even sit up. There was an oxygen tube under his nose, and an IV line going into the back of his hand – he presumed, since his hands and forearms were both heavily bandaged. Probably his feet too, he guessed. Well, frostbite healed. Even if it didn't, he didn't give a shit because, again, alive and with Bucky and free.

“We're here,” Bucky reported. “Gotta carry you into the house, love, but then you get your drugs back,” he teased gently. His hands shook slightly as he closed off the port on the IV and removed the oxygen tubing.

“I'm okay,” Steve said softly.

“Mmmm. Yes.” Bucky met his eyes. “I love you more than anyone in my life, you know that right?”

“I know, baby.” Warmth flooded Steve. “Feel the same about you.”

Bucky leant in close. “So you can understand why I am  _so fucking angry_ at you right now.”

“Uh huh. Don't care.”

Bucky made a frustrated noise.

“Okay kids, we're here.” Sam came back from the cockpit. “Barnes, if you were gonna take him out, we should've done it over the Grand Canyon. Easier than dumping a body in the desert.”

“Sam's mad at you too,” Bucky informed Steve, sliding his arms under Steve's back and knees, picking up him and the blanket still over him all at once. 

“Still don't care.”

Sam sighed noisily.

“Yeah, he's always been like this,” Bucky said drily. But he also shifted Steve so his head rested on Bucky's shoulder, and held him securely, so at the end of the day, Steve was winning.

They walked out of the bay door into late afternoon sunlight, the desert sky huge above them. Howard's house, a surprisingly unassuming (if huge) split-level ranch, stood alone in the desert.

Sam whistled low and long at it. “Think there's enough room for the three of us?”

“You're staying?” Steve asked, delighted.

“For a bit,” Sam allowed. “Someone's gotta go into town in what I assume is a sexy vintage convertible and get you losers groceries.”

Bucky laughed softly. “You got the lock, or you want me to pick it?”

“Don't insult me,” Sam scoffed, heading for the front door. He knelt down in front of it, pulled a slim case from his pocket, and had the thing picked in under a minute. “Thanks Howard?” he muttered, frowning at it.

Bucky shared a look with him. That was a little  _too_ easy, and Sam pulled out a sidearm, careful to point it at the ground as he shouldered the door open, Bucky right behind him.

The living room was clean, and perfectly empty. And had last been decorated sometime in the sixties. There was a sunken pit, and a lot of very modern-looking furniture; for a given definition of modern.

“Good Lord,” Sam said.

“Ooooh,” Bucky said. “This is definitely from his bachelor years.”

“Dad _did_ like this era of interior design,” Tony said, appearing in a doorway.

Sam jumped, but didn't raise his weapon. Bucky quickly put Steve down and stepped in front of him and Sam both.

“Hi, by the way,” Tony said cheerfully. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

“Tony.” Steve struggled to sit up. “No one's been here for decades, how did you know...?”

Tony sighed. “Steve, I know you're smart. I  _know_ it. But when you start using the phone  _I gave you_ to look up this particular address, you have to trust that JARVIS will let me know. Won't you, JARVIS?”

“Yes, sir. I should note, Captain Rogers, that you and your companions are welcome here.”

Tony waved that away. “Yeah, what he said.”

Bucky gave him a disbelieving look. “Me, too?”

“Well, yeah. I know better than to split the lovebirds up.” Tony came into the room, and Sam made his weapon disappear. “Also, last I checked, you hadn't done a fucking thing wrong. Contrary to popular opinion, I actually do care about injustice.”

Bucky moved back a little, shielding Steve with his body. “Is it safe for you, if I stay here?” he asked quietly. “I can go. It's not...it wouldn't be fair. To bring that here.”

“Don't insult me, Barnes,” Tony advised, moving neatly between him and Sam to go prepare a drink at a small bar just behind them. “The security here is top-notch. JARVIS, you've got your eye on the place, right?”

“I assure you, Sergeant, that you and everyone here are quite safe. The house itself, as well as the land and airspace for several miles around are being surveilled.” A short pause. “Also, with the exception of those people in this room, no one knows you are here. And may I add that unlike SHIELD, the Avengers can keep it that way.”

“So Steve and Sam and Tony are safe?” Bucky asked.

“Indeed, sir.”

“Oh.” Bucky's legs folded and he sat down beside Steve, resting his forehead on his knees for a moment. “Good. That's...really good.”

“Yes sir. If you'd like, I can show you and Captain Rogers to a bedroom. You're both indicating that rest is a necessity right now.”

“Go,” Sam said quietly. “I'll get whatever Steve needs and meet you there.”

Bucky nodded and moved to kneel, gathering Steve into his arms again and rising, a little wobbly.

“You okay?” Steve asked quietly.

“Uh huh. Just need to sleep.” Bucky smiled humorlessly. “I found you around midnight, and Sam didn't get there for some time. It's about four in the afternoon, now.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sleep is good.”

“So I'm told,” Tony said, after taking a sip. “By the way, Merry Christmas.”

“What?” Steve asked, craning his neck to look at Tony.

“It's Christmas Eve. So Merry Christmas.”

Bucky's jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

“Uh huh. Now go to sleep, and maybe Santa will come and leave you a present,” Tony cooed at him. 

Bucky couldn't help it. He started laughing. “Oh my God, Stark.”

“I mean, the only thing around here is liquor and shag carpeting, but...”

Bucky laughed harder. “Tony. Thank you.”

“I'll let you stay if you promise to not be sincere with me.”

Bucky kept giggling, even as he turned and walked around the sunken, shag-carpeted pit in the middle of the floor. “Promise. Shit. It's Christmas.” He laughed again, only slightly hysterical. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

“Oh, honey.” Steve curled himself up in Bucky's arms as much as he could, while Bucky carried him, following JARVIS's directions, to a comfortable bedroom at the back of the house. 

There was a large four-poster bed and a dresser, with a big sofa set against one wall. The room was pleasantly dim in the late afternoon, and even almost tastefully decorated. And, to Bucky's quiet pleasure, one entire wall was glass sliding doors, leading to a small patio. They could lie in bed and watch the desert, watch the sky change. Or pull the curtains and fall into warm darkness.

He settled Steve in the bed, careful with his bandaged hands and feet, and Sam joined them, quickly setting up the IV and oxygen again.

“Both of you, sleep,” he ordered, and looked particularly at Bucky. “You, I don't wanna see for twelve hours.” He fixed his gaze on Steve. “And you're not allowed out of bed for a day at the very least. If you weren't superhuman, you wouldn't have fingers or toes left. Or possibly hands or feet.”

Steve's eyes slid closed. “Not gonna argue.”

“I'll take care of him,” Bucky said. “ _And_ sleep. Promise, Sam. Go get something to eat and take care of yourself.”

“Oh, I will,” Sam said happily. “I saw what was in that liquor cabinet.”

Bucky laughed, and Steve opened his eyes enough to watch the two men hug. “Merry Christmas, by the way.”

“Merry Christmas, guys,” Sam said, and let himself out of their room.

Bucky stripped down to his skin, looked at the bed and sighed. They were alone now, no need to protect Steve. No need to band against the world, at least for a few hours.

“Hey, c'mon in,” Steve said, and gave a little wiggle.

“No.”

“Buck, you're not gonna hurt me,” Steve said. Whined, really. “Please, baby, let's cuddle and fall asleep.”

Bucky pulled an extra blanket off the end of the bed, and used his words. “No. Steve, I love you, but I really, _really_ need you to understand how much you hurt me with that little trick.”

“Yeah, but it _worked_ ,” Steve argued.

“Yes. It did. Congratulations, it worked. You're right.” Bucky looked beyond exhausted, his eyes deep and the skin around them bruise-colored, stark on his pale skin. “I had to hold my lover's body. For _hours_. You were frozen stiff, did you know that? Like a doll or something. And I didn't know if your heart would start up, once you did start to thaw.” He scrubbed his face. “How fucking dare you, just because you didn't want to see me bleeding. You goddamn coward, Steve Rogers.”

Steve bit his lip, hard. “I can't be sorry. It worked.”

Bucky threw up his hands. “Yes, it did. Again, congratulations. I'm sleeping on the sofa.” He came over to the bed, though, and kissed Steve's forehead. “Call out if you need anything.”

“Bucky, please...”

“ _No_. Can you listen to me for _once_?” Bucky demanded. “Steve, I love you. I'm going to be like ten fucking feet away. But I will not share a bed with you tonight, or tomorrow night, or until we both work through the load of shit you just dumped on me.”

“Oh,” Steve said softly. “I...of course. Do what you gotta do, Buck, to take care of yourself.” He paused. “I love you too.”

Bucky snorted, and stalked over to the sofa. It was plush and comfortable, and he studiously did not think about what Howard might have done on it. He piled the pillows at one end, stretched out under the blanket, and was asleep in minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	17. Chapter 17

Bucky woke up suddenly, sucking in air, bolting upright.

It was dim. And too warm. It hadn't been this warm since the summer, and that was different. This warmth was musty, indoors, mechanical. This wasn't the cabin, it was the wrong light, it was too dim but not night and the bed was wrong and they were fucked, they were so fucked, he had to protect Steve. Only thing that mattered anymore.

“Mmm?” 

Bucky turned around to watch Steve try to roll over, but the tube coming out of his arm stopped him, and he rolled onto his back again, grumbling.

Bucky took a deep breath, then two more. Then his counted his fingers. And each knuckle. Someone had once told him that was how shepherds counted, because you could count up to twenty just on your hands.

He counted in English, German and Mandarin, took another deep breath, and worked through what he knew now. They were in Nevada. In the desert. In Howard Stark's house, which was technically Tony's, but Tony was an ally, more or less. Sam was here too.

Steve was injured. He had to recover from freezing himself alive. Bucky was fucked in the head, but physically well. They had both slept long. He wondered –

“JARVIS? What day is it? And time?”

“It is 0830 on December the twenty-fifth, Sergeant.”

“Oh. Thank you. Uh.” Oh what the hell, he was an AI, that was basically a person. “Merry Christmas, JARVIS.”

“And to you, sir.”

“Thanks.” It was Christmas morning, and he'd slept a good sixteen hours, maybe a bit more. Steve was still out cold, and Bucky took advantage to pull on a pair of pants and go looking for coffee.

He found a quiet house – well, if anyone deserved to sleep in it was Sam, and  he guessed that  Tony was a late riser – but also found the kitchen and JARVIS talked him through making a pot of coffee. There was even creamer in the refrigerator, a treat he'd sorely missed in the last months. 

Bucky poured a second cup for Steve, and went back to their room. He was awake, and watched Bucky cautiously.

“Coffee?” Bucky offered, taking a sip from his own mug.

“Thanks.”

Bucky set the mugs down on a small table and helped Steve sit up, arranging the pillows to support him. Steve's hands were too thickly bandaged to hold anything, so Bucky held his mug, tilting it for Steve to sip.

“Thanks,” Steve muttered, looking away, and Bucky remembered doing similar for him so many decades ago, when Steve was too weak to hold a soup bowl.

“You're welcome,” he said quietly, and traded off mugs, drinking when Steve wasn't, and holding Steve's coffee patiently for him the rest of the time. At least he knew enough not to fuss, even though every fiber of his being ached to get the asshole back for all the times he'd babied Bucky while _he_ was recovering. Or just generally to get Steve back for being a dick.

Coffee finished, Bucky set the mugs aside and sat on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel? Honestly.”

“I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.”

“Not funny, Bilbo.”

Steve smiled at that. “I do, though. I  _am_ old, Gandalf.” He turned his head. “I didn't carry the ring, though, and I know I'll get better. I feel better than yesterday.”

“You were technically dead yesterday, so that's good I guess.” Bucky took Steve's free hand, cradling it in his hands. “Does this hurt?”

“Yeah. And my feet. But it's distant.” Steve shrugged. “Oh, hey. I'm not gonna touch mental stuff right now, but physically, how are you?”

“Me? Fine.” Bucky settled Steve's hand on his belly, over the covers. “I'm not the one who got cut open, then curled up in a snowbank.”

“Yeah, but still.” Steve smiled at him. “I know its months later. I _know_ you're perfect again. But still.”

“I'm a little surprised too. All the time.” Bucky half-smiled at him. “I don't think I was ever really one hundred percent, as the Winter Soldier. Either not enough to eat, or carrying an injury, or whatever. It feels good now, though. Right.”

“That's good,” Steve said softly. “That's all I ever want for you.”

“Really?” Bucky gave him a dry look. “Have a little ambition, Rogers.”

“Fuck off.” Steve met his eyes. “You could hate me forever, and it would destroy me. But not as much as watching you go insane, not as much as losing you, would do so. Yeah, I was a fucking coward. Of course I was. I'd hate me too, now. But you're free, and that's better than you loving me while you lose everything you deserve.”

“Shut up.” Bucky dropped his head to kiss the sharp line of Steve's collarbone. “Stop with the fucking speeches already. I love you. I'm fucking furious at you and will be for a long time, but I love you.”

“I did what I thought was the best thing.” Steve smiled sadly at the look this earned him. “Hey, Sam'll probably be up soon. Open the curtains and we'll watch the desert until then.”

Bucky nodded and got up, revealing the view of the long, winter-morning desert (such as winter was, here). He came back to  the  bed, but sat as far from Steve as he could get, ramrod against the headboard. 

And took that time to savor the change of view, the space – their room was bigger than the whole cabin – the knowledge that fresh food and doctors and the whole world  was there for them. It would take time; it would  _always_ take time, but there was something still there worth fighting for.

Bucky turned to ask Steve what he wanted to do that day, but Steve had fallen back asleep, his breathing slow and deep. So Bucky pulled the blankets up a little higher, and went to go find a shower.

The bathroom down the hall had a drain in the middle of the room, which Bucky did not care to meditate on too much, but it also had an orgy-sized shower (thus, presumably, the drain) and towels and soap, all of which were things...he probably had never experienced all together, come to think about it. His bathroom at the  big house in New York had been lovely and spacious to account for when he hadn't been able to get around so well, but the fixtures were basically normal person-sized.

He took a long, luxurious shower, and desperately hoped Howard had thought to soundproof the place, considering how he sort of accidentally moaned when the first blast of hot water hit his body. Bucky dried off – the towels, at least, were not fifty-some years old – and looked at his clothes with definite distaste.

“Sir, if I may assist?”

Bucky did  _not_ jump out of his skin. It was surprisingly easy to get used to being surveilled, actually. At least he knew JARVIS was neutral-to-good. “Yes?”

“The bathrobe hanging next to the door is for guests.” JARVIS paused. “It's new. And I believe yours and Steve's bags are in the next bedroom over from yours.” Another pause, and then tentatively. “The bed there is for you, if you require it.”

“Thanks Jarvis.” He could put on new underwear and a new shirt, at least. “I want to stay in the same room as Steve, though. But, uh. Thank you.”

“I am at your service, sir.”

Bucky smiled at thin air, put on the robe, and found their bags. The room was surprisingly cozy, dim and under-lit but with a big bed and a chair and table. He might not sleep here, but it would make a good hideaway.

He got dressed and went to check on Steve, finding that Sam had beaten him to it. Steve was still asleep.

“How is he?” Bucky asked softly.

Sam sighed. “I mean, good, considering his condition yesterday. His temperature is elevated though – even for him – and his vitals are a little sluggish.”

Bucky frowned and went to sit on the other side of the bed, where he could hold Steve's free hand. “He's gonna be okay, right? I mean...he thawed out.”

“Yeah. It just might not be overnight.” Sam smiled. “Sorry. I forget you guys don't necessarily heal instantly.”

“Sometimes I do,” Steve slurred, and Bucky smiled, leaning over to kiss his forehead.

“Not as much as you _think_ you do,” he teased, and smoothed Steve's hair back. “How d'you feel, Steve?”

“Like butter spread over --”

“You already used that line on me,” Bucky said dryly, very slightly terrified that Steve hadn't realized that.

“Yeah, but not on Sam.” Steve smiled and opened his eyes. “Y'r being nice to me. What's wrong?”

“He's soft in the head is what's wrong,” Sam said. “But so are you, so I guess that makes sense.”

“Okay, him I get, but why _me_?” Bucky asked, a little wounded. 

“You are _so much nicer_ to him than I would be,” Sam pointed out, but he was smiling at Bucky. “Seriously, dude.”

“I slept on the sofa,” Bucky offered, and grinned. “Oh, I'm pissed off and he knows it. But we're putting the worst of the fighting off until we're both in a condition to do it properly.” He reached out, his hand light on Steve's hair. “And, for my sins, I do still love him.”

“Well, yeah.” Sam's voice was gentle. “That's Steve Rogers for you.”

Bucky laughed softly, then louder when Steve stuck his tongue out at them.

“Hey, I wanna check your hands and feet,” Sam said, and hesitated. “Bucky, look. I know you've seen shitty stuff in your time, but this is not going to be nice.”

“Honey, go make breakfast or something,” Steve said, opening his eyes and focusing on Bucky's. “Please.”

“So you get to see me at my worst, but it doesn't work the other way?” Bucky asked mildly. They could have _little_ fights, still.

“It's 'cause you _have_ seen me at my worst. 'Cause you had to find my corpse, and I knew it.” Steve closed his eyes and sighed. “I know. I _know_ , baby. You got every right to stay. But please, for me. Don't see me like this. It's not good right now, is it?”

“It isn't,” Sam said softly. “I put the bandages on. Bucky, truly. You've been through enough. In general, and with him, specifically.”

Bucky smiled wryly. “Can't argue with that.” He leaned over and kissed Steve. “I love you. I'll be back with breakfast for us. All of us,” he clarified, and Sam smiled his thanks. “Have JARVIS get me if you need anything.”

“Promise,” Sam said, and Bucky got off the bed, heading back for the kitchen. Secretly relieved, and pretty sure this made him a really terrible person.

Well, it was only the latest in a long line of proofs that he was a shit human being. And at least he could make breakfast.

 

Sam came in just as he was finishing the eggs. Sam did not look happy.

“He's been a terrible patient since the day he was born,” Bucky offered, because that's what it was. Steve had offered to do jumping jacks or something. Or just been a dick; he was good at that in particular. There was no way Sam had bad news. His boyfriend was a _super-soldier_. Hell, Bucky _himself_ had clawed his way back from practically being dead. Steve was fine, just a pain in the ass.

Sam laughed at that, and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Okay, but, for real. You're his next-of-kin and also the two of you are  _so_ co-dependent, so I'll tell you this.” He sighed. “He's not dying, or anything like that. Far from it. But he's not doing great, Bucky. He needs a doctor. I'm good – very good, actually – but I'm good at people who are bleeding out on a battlefield. I am less good about the bits that come after.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “How bad?”

“He probably won't lose his hands or feet. I can't promise on the level of fingers or toes, and I can't promise that there won't be long-lasting damage. Maybe permanent damage.” Sam stole a piece of bacon, and Bucky let him. “He needs better painkillers, and something to bring his fever down. I know a _little_ bit of you guys' physiology, but not enough.”

“He needs a doctor,” Bucky said, and sighed. “So much for keeping a secret.”

“Buh? Healthcare? For super-soldiers? That was supposed to _not_ be a line item.” Stark appeared at the doorway (how did he keep _doing_ that?  Bucky wondered), yawned, and made a beeline for the coffee. “Don't worry about making extra, I take only coffee before noon, as is right and civilized. Cannot believe I'm up this early.” He peered at Sam and Bucky, and yawned again. “Merry Christmas. JARVIS, arrange for appropriate medical care as my gift this year? Protocol Caen, please.”

“Yes sir.” A short pause. “Commander Wilson, assistance will be on its way shortly.”

Sam and Bucky looked at each other. “Thank...you?” Bucky tried.

“You're welcome.” Tony downed his mug of coffee in one, refilled it, and stared at them. “I definitely have things to tell both of you. Things that can wait until a decent hour.”

Sam smiled at him. “Go wake up, Stark. We'll be fine.”

“Great. Excellent. Love hearing those words. Oh. How's the--” Tony waved at Bucky's metal arm.

“Uh. Great? It works fine, anyway,” Bucky said, and demonstrated by dishing up plates for himself, Sam and Steve. He'd found an apron, and it occurred to him, briefly, that he might look like a total dweeb. 

“Awesome. Excellent.” Tony nodded firmly, and wandered off to continue to wake up.

Bucky and Sam carried the plates into Steve's room in unspoken agreement. Sam settled on the sofa, while Bucky slid onto the bed beside Steve and leaned over to kiss him. His skin  _was_ warmer than usual to the touch.

“Hey you.” Bucky smiled when Steve's eyes slowly opened. “You want something to eat?”

Steve smiled and nodded, and managed about half his plate, Bucky feeding him patiently.

“You finish it,” he said, and closed his eyes again.

Bucky stroked Steve's hair back from his forehead, and kissed his hairline. “Thanks, baby.” Another kiss, pressing long, checking for fever. A low one, at least. “We're getting you a doctor. You'll feel better soon, Steve. I promise.”

Steve chuckled softly. “We still gotta have a fight.”

“We still gotta have like _ten_ fights,” Bucky corrected him, and Steve laughed again. “Uh huh. Rest for me, I got a big breakfast to eat.”

“Bucky. Sam.” They both looked at Steve. “Bucky's being very nice to me. How bad is it?”

“What, now I get in trouble for being _nice_?” Bucky demanded.

“You're not going to die,” Sam said. “I mean, not from this. I am still willing to drop you out over the Grand Canyon but your boyfriend never lets me have any fun.”

“Sam!” Bucky started laughing, because he was tired and his heart hurt and Steve was...Steve. And Sam was a literal godsend.

“Yeah, he's a real drag like that,” Steve said dryly.

“So you're not going to die. But you're not in good shape, man.” Sam sighed. “You saw your hands, especially.”

Steve made a face and nodded. 

“We don't regrow limbs,” Bucky said, with black humor.

Steve pushed himself up at that and reached for Bucky. Reached for his hand, really, and kissed the plates that ran across where his knuckles should be. “It'll be okay, Buck. No matter what, we'll be okay.”

“Well, yeah, I knew _that_ ,” Bucky said, and shoved Steve to lie back down. “Rest, baby. Let that serum do some work.” He gently adjusted the oxygen tubing so it wasn't pressing against fever-sensitive skin. “I'm serious. We heal better if we're rested.” He flicked Steve's ear. “I'll be a dick to you if that helps.”

Steve giggled. “I love you too.”

“Shut up and go to sleep,” Bucky said, and Steve did.

“Hey Sam?” Bucky asked, when he'd finished eating.

“Yeah?”

“Is it okay if I stay with him? I mean, I won't somehow be hurting him, right?”

“No, you won't,” Sam said gently.

Bucky smiled at him, a little shyly. “I didn't think so, but. You know.”

Sam laughed. “I won't tell him you were here the whole time.”

“I can't wait to be able to kick his ass,” Bucky said, and Sam laughed harder and, almost without Bucky noticing, took his plates and headed for the kitchen to do the washing up.

Bucky settled against the headboard, careful not to touch Steve, just in case. He was sleeping deeply, breath slow and steady, but he was very still.

Bucky, certain he was alone, sent out a wordless prayer, crossed himself, reached for a book, and settled down to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,
> 
> I'm sorry I haven't replied to everyone's comments yet, but I wanted to get this chapter out while I had the chance, I'm hoping you'd rather read this than a thank you ;) I'm going on holiday for a week starting tomorrow and won't have my laptop with me (or much internet time, for that matter), so replies will take awhile, and the next chapter a bit longer even. Sorry! It'll be worth it!

Steve spent the morning moving between sleeping, restless dozing, and being awake and very cranky. He asked for water once, and a kiss another time, and Bucky gave him both, the kiss lingering a little.

“You sure you're mad at me?” Steve asked, when Bucky finally drew away.

“I contain multitudes,” Bucky informed him, and Steve smiled.

“You can holler at me soon.”

“Feeling better?”

“Not really,” Steve admitted. “But that'll change. It has to.”

“Yeah, it really does.” Bucky touched Steve's hair. “You want me to read to you?”

Steve shook his head. “Nah. 'm gonna fall back asleep.” He reached out, resting his hand on Bucky's leg. “Stay with me?”

“I promise. Of course I'll stay with you,” Bucky said. He touched the back of Steve's wrist, but was afraid to do more. “I'll be right here, Steve.”

Steve smiled, and dozed off again.

Bucky must have drifted off as well, and was vaguely aware that he'd probably slept for hours. Soft voices penetrated his sleep, and he stirred a little. Sleep was warm and good, and he wanted to stay.

“Oh, no, we're waking him up.”

“Well, we'd have to eventually.”

“I know. But they're so sweet like this.”

“Unconscious and silent? Yes.”

“Sam!” But she was laughing, and Bucky _knew_ that voice, and he opened his eyes and there was Lisle, standing by the bed on Steve's side.

She looked exactly the same; average height, slender and whip-strong. Her hair was still long, the braid wrapped around her head, and she was smiling at them.

Bucky fuzzily thought that she must be smiling at Steve. Hadn't noticed he was awake. She'd never smile at him. He'd taken her home from her, had brought violence and killing there. He'd killed a man in front of her. Her friendship and care had been a casualty as well. They  _had_ to be. He wasn't ever going to be welcome there, and he was lucky as  _hell_ that she was still kind towards Steve.

“Sorry we woke you up,” she whispered, and grinned at him. 

“I'm sorry,” he managed. “For everything. I'm so sorry, Lisle.” And he bolted, because cowardice was actually _amazing_ , everyone should try it.

“Bucky!” But no one ran after him, thank God, and he could run down the corridor, aim for the main part of the house, take another corridor off of the front room. More bedrooms, he guessed, or whatever the fuck Howard did here. An open door to an office, a modern one. Then –

Oh. It was beautiful. A kind of greenhouse – a conservatory, really. They were way more common when he was young, but you had to be rich.

It occurred to Bucky who's house he was  _in_ , and he smiled a little. Technically, he was rich himself now. If he could have a house, (he couldn't, that was for  people who could have a home ) he'd put in a conservatory.

It was warm and sunny, and someone had stuck a fern in the window to make the place look at least slightly lived-in. The furniture was a modern interpretation of mid-century, which meant it was comfortable.

Knowing that a glass room wasn't actually a good hiding place, Bucky tucked himself onto a beanbag shoved in a corner between two bookcases. It was basically secure-feeling, and he could hide, kind of. No for long, but enough to catch his breath, and figure out how to avoid Lisle for the entire time she was in the house.

He got a few hours, presumably because Steve was a bit more important. (A lot more important.) Bucky dozed a little, and read whatever he grabbed from one of the bookshelves – a John Dos Passos novel, so that was even pretty sweet. And JARVIS gave him the heads-up that his solitude was coming to an end.

“Sergeant, Mr. Stark is on his way to this room,” he told Bucky quietly.

Bucky put his book down. “Thanks. Uh.” It was not  _really_ on to ask the question he wanted to ask.

“He is...amused,” JARVIS offered.

“Huh. Okay. Thank you.”

“You're welcome, sir.”

It wasn't long until Tony came into the room. He located Bucky quickly, and they nodded hello to each other.

“You can stay in the shame corner if you want,” Tony offered. “I'm going to get a real chair, though.”

Bucky smiled at that. “Go for it.”

Tony snagged a chair and dragged it over, slouching down and propping his feet up on the edge of a bookshelf. “You know, she's not mad at you.”

“She should be,” Bucky said.

“Well, yeah, probably.” Tony shrugged. “But people are weird, in case you hadn't noticed.”

“Nope. Never in my life,” Bucky said dryly.

“Didn't think so. You strike me as the dim, sheltered type,” Tony said, just as dryly.

Bucky broke first with a smile. “What're you here for? To try and cheer me up?”

“Oh _hell_ no. Fuck no. I am not allowed to handle other peoples' emotions,” Tony explained. “And _that_ rule, unlike many others, is a _very good_ rule.”

Bucky laughed out loud at that. “Okay, fair. So?”

“So I'm here to tell you that people will _surprise the hell out of you_ with what they'll forgive,” Tony said.

“I was a mindless killer for seventy years,” Bucky reminded him.

“I was a weapons manufacturer. I designed killing machines more efficient that you'll _ever_ be. Want to compare body counts? I win,” Tony said bluntly. “I win every time, Barnes.”

“I don't think the child who saw me slit her father's throat is in the forgiving mood,” Bucky said softly.

“Nor should she be. She owes you jack-shit, even though, I should point out, you had no free will and were being controlled so completely it honestly makes me slightly ill. Which is a better excuse – no, _explanation_ – than I've got for myself.” Tony fixed him with a look. “There will be people who will never forgive either of us. And we have _no right_ to expect their forgiveness. They are allowed their rage and their sorrow, and they can hate me with my blessing. The best _we_ can do, Barnes, is not be those people again.”

“Are you giving me an inspirational speech?” Bucky asked, fascinated.

“Yes, and JARVIS is under specific orders not to record this, so don't ever tell anyone.” Tony slouched deeper in the chair. “Going back to my original point. The deeply weird people who love us don't see the body counts. Or they do, but they also see, in my case, a billionaire playboy genius who's going to transform the world with renewable energy. Bill Gates has got the system for funding medical research all sorted out, but I kick him back a few billion now and then, just to keep the works greased. I throw galas, because rich people have some serious issues around conscience that they like to buy their way out of.” Tony shrugged. “It won't ever make up for it. I did that weapons research thinking that destruction would bring peace, not because I love destruction. But I did it of my own free will. You didn't even have that, and the people who love you see that so much more clearly than you ever will.”

“Oh,” Bucky said quietly. 

“Yeah. Get used to that feeling,” Tony said, not unkindly. “It's kind of horrible.”

“It kind of is,” Bucky said. “How do you deal with it?”

“Honestly?” Tony paused. “If you ever repeat this, I'll deny it entirely, and I have a whole AI network to back me up.”

Bucky smiled. “Understood.”

“You do your best, every single day, to live up to the idea of you that _they_ have. _Steve fucking Rogers_ believes that you're a good, innocent man, Barnes. You're never gonna be who he thinks you are. But he's gonna love the hell out of who you _actually_ are, and he's gonna give you something to aspire to.” Tony paused again. “From what I've seen, you're a lot closer to his idea of who you are, than to who _you_ think you are. None of this bullshit is your fault, and you've still paid for it ten times over. If people are gonna be dumb enough to love us, let 'em.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “Yeah, I'm never telling anyone you said that. No one would believe me.”

“Protective coloration is great,” Tony agreed.

“Hey Stark? Thanks.”

Tony smiled at him, slow and real, just for a moment. “You're welcome. You wanna stay in here?”

Bucky nodded. “Oh. D'you know how Steve's doing?”

Tony shook his head. “They're still in there with him. Haven't heard anything.” He got up to leave. “I'll have JARVIS call you when dinner's ready.”

“Uh. Thanks Tony.” Bucky settled down, squeezed in his little space. He'd have to go face the world, but he could take a few more minutes.

A few minutes turned into the better part of an hour, one that was mostly spent counting his breaths. He breathed deep, and studied the fern. He watched the wide, beautiful, opposite-of-barren desert out of the glass walls.

He heard the footsteps coming down the corridor, and of course he knew who they were.

“Bucky?” Lisle walked slowly, carefully into the room. “Oh. Hey.” She smiled at him. “Feeling better?”

Bucky nodded.

“Want to talk?”

Bucky nodded again,  and experimented with a smile . “C'mon. We can sit on the sofa like real people.”

“I'd like that,” Lisle said gently, and came over, offering Bucky a hand up, despite the fact that he was a good six inches taller than her, weighed half again as much, and could literally crush her. 

He took her hand, and let her help pull him up. They went over to the sofa by the fern.

“Hey,” she said, and a huge smile blossomed across her face. “You look _amazing_.”

Bucky laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “I look okay,” he admitted, and smiled at her. “You're stunning as always.”

“Yes. Yes I am.” She winked at him and held out her arms and Bucky went into them like it was his own mother holding him. “Oh, sweetheart. Bucky, dear heart, it's okay. It's all going to be okay.”

He nodded, because he could  _just about_ pretend to believe her.

“It is. You'll see, I'm right,” she whispered to him, and he giggled a little.

They hugged for a long time, but Bucky finally drew back, and smiled when she kissed his forehead. “Lisle, I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too.” She stroked his hair off his face, smile still wide and kind and loving, because somehow _she_ was happy to see _him_. “I missed you so much, sweetheart, we all did.”

Bucky swallowed. “Sarah and Tati...”

“I'll give you the big update when Steve wakes up,” she said, and patted his cheek. “But everyone's alive.”

“Thank God,” Bucky breathed, relieved beyond words. Then – “Steve needs to wake up? What's wrong?”

“The fact that you two are worse than fucking cats when it comes to sleeping,” she said dryly, but she was still ( _still_ , what the hell Lisle you _are_ soft in the head) smiling at him. 

“When's he gonna be okay?” Bucky asked.

Lisle's smile receded. “He's going to be okay,” she said quickly, before Bucky could react to the core of cold where his heart had been. “Calm down, kiddo. He'll be back to annoying the living shit out of all of us soon.”

“What do you mean 'back to',” Bucky muttered.

“Point.” Lisle wrapped her hands around his and squeezed. “He's not in great shape, Bucky. His feet are healing, and he'll be up and walking in another day or two. His hands, though. That's where the worst damage was.” She smiled a little sadly. “His right hand'll be fine, but I have to amputate two of his fingers and part of his hand on the left side.” She wrapped her hand around Bucky's ring finger and pinky. “These. And the knuckles below them. I'm sorry, sweetheart.”

Bucky took a deep breath. “So when he wants to give someone the middle finger, which one's he gonna go with? Tradition, or the  _actual_ middle finger?”

Lisle laughed out loud. “He's not really bound by tradition, y'know?” she asked, deeply amused.

Bucky smiled at her. “Yeah. Hey. Thank you. He was a fuckin' dumbass, and you're cleaning up after us again.”

“Not again. Nothing was your fault, Bucky,” she said, and squeezed his hands again. “And it's my pleasure. He _was_ a dumbass, but it was for the right reasons.” Another little squeeze. “We'll get you your therapist again soon, Bucky. Get you all the care you need, that you _deserve_.”

Bucky shook his head, but didn't argue. “Still. When do you --”

“Sam and I are waiting for some supplies, so probably tomorrow morning.” She hesitated. “And I have a favor to ask.”

“Literally anything, Lisle.”

“We won't be putting him under. You two are so weird with your metabolism, I wouldn't trust the anaesthetic to work without a dedicated anaethetist, which neither Sam nor I are. And enough people know you're here, I don't want to bring another one in. We're going to dope him to the gills and keep him from feeling pain, and we can both work fast, but will you be there to distract him, give him some comfort?”

“Oh my God, of course. Please. I want to be there.” Bucky smiled sadly at her. “We're still scheduling our knock-down screaming fight, but I love him. I want to help.”

“You will,” she promised, and let go, but just long enough to gather him into another hug. How, exactly, had he lasted _whole months_ without this contact? Motherly and tender, friendly, forgiving. He hugged her back gently, not wanting to hurt, but trying to show what this meant.

“Love you, kiddo,” Lisle murmured in his ear. “C'mon. You can make me a cup of tea, and then we'll go wake Steve up and I'll catch you all up.”

Bucky nodded, but didn't move.

“This is okay too,” Lisle whispered, and Bucky giggled.

“Love you too.” He finally pulled away and gave her his best smile, the one that made all the girls swoon. Lisle didn't quite get there, but her eyes sparkled just a touch more. “C'mon, you've earned some tea.” He stood up and lead her back to the kitchen, getting them both something warm and good to drink. He could start dinner soon, cook for her and Steve, Sam and Tony. His little family that was getting, bit by bit, bigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: Steve undergoes surgery in this chapter while awake, but he doesn't feel any pain, and the surgery isn't described within the story itself; the scene focuses instead on Bucky and Steve talking. If the very thought freaks you out, it's totally possible to skip this chapter entirely without missing anything vital to the story.

“Should we wake him up?” Bucky murmured to Lisle, and of course Steve's eyes opened.

“Yes,” he said, and Bucky sighed.

“Hi Lisle,” Steve said, and blinked a few times, looking tired and bleary. Bucky took a seat, cross-legged beside Steve and sitting up against the headboard. He rested his hand on Steve's forehead and frowned. Not burning up, not really, but warmer than he usually was.

“I'm fine,” Steve said, not a little peevishly, and paused. “Well, considering.”

Bucky forced a smile. This was the love of his life, here. “Yeah, Lisle told me.” He leaned over and kissed Steve's forehead. “I'm sorry, Steve.”

Steve shrugged. “Worth it.”

Bucky sighed. Again. And was rescued by Lisle taking a chair on Steve's other side.

“So,” she said, politely ignoring them. “Gossip time.”

Steve perked up at that, and Bucky curved his body a little, the two of them clearly eager to hear.

“Sarah will be fine,” Lisle said, and Bucky took a deep breath. He hadn't ruined everything. That last horrible summer day came back to him, the smell of blood and Sarah screaming and –

“Hey baby. You're okay. You're okay, love.” Steve was murmuring to him, holding him gently, and Bucky shuddered, and took another deep breath.

“Shit. I'm sorry.”

“You're fine.” Steve's arm tightened around him, and Bucky hugged him back, hard. “You're okay, Bucky.” He pulled back a little and smiled at him, eyes blue-blue in his face, and Bucky loved him fiercely in that moment. His Steve, forever familiar, his constant.

“Sorry,” he said again, after a few more measured, counted breaths. He settled down again still with Steve's arm around him. His left hand and forearm were propped up on a high pillow, and Steve carefully hadn't moved them.

Bucky snuggled a little closer, and Lisle smiled at him. “You want some water, hon?”

Bucky shook his head. “Just tell me how everyone is. Please?”

She grinned at them. “Everyone misses you both, of course. Tati's doing great. Sarah's still recovering, and will be for awhile. But they saved her leg, and she'll walk again and all of that.”

Steve let out a long breath. “Thank God.”

Bucky nodded his agreement. “She's got the right care?”

“The best,” Lisle promised. “There's a lot of rehab ahead, and her knee'll never be a hundred percent again, but she's still running things as much as she can.” She smiled, soft and kind. “We're all back at the Big House, as of a month ago. You guys have to come and visit as soon as you can, it's gorgeous in winter.”

Steve met her soft smile. “We'll be there the first moment we can.”

Bucky was quiet. He wasn't going to be dumb enough to ask if they _really_ wanted him there – Tony's words still clear in his memory – but still. He couldn't go back there. Not because they wouldn't welcome him, or he didn't deserve it, but because he genuinely wasn't sure he could walk the grounds without remembering the end to a golden, gentle summer. 

On the other hand, Bucky suspected he wouldn't get free that easily. So it might not even come up. Steve could visit, even live there, while Bucky rotted in prison.

“How're you?” Bucky asked Lisle suddenly, ready to gently guide the conversation away.

“Me?” Lisle looked surprised. “Bucky, honey, I'm fine of course.”

Bucky blushed. “I know, I just...we missed you too, you know?”

“He's right,” Steve said, and smiled warmly at her while Bucky sort of tried to hide behind him. “You been okay?”

“Fine,” she said, and smiled, catching Bucky's eye. “Guys, I've seen people get shot before. I'm good.” Lisle reached over Steve for Bucky's hand, and squeezed it. “We're okay, honey, all of us. I promise.”

Bucky nodded, not entirely trusting himself to speak in that moment, but gave her his best smile.

“'Course you are,” Steve murmured, and laughed when she tweaked his nose. “Do the others know you're here?”

“Sort of. They know where I am, but not that I'm with you two.” Lisle smiled ruefully. “I can't let even them know. You guys gotta promise to have my back when they find out I got to have you both to myself.”

Steve laughed, and promised, and Bucky did too, the two of them settling down to teasing her as they always had, where she shot back twice as good as she got.

Bucky excused himself to go make dinner, and was pleased and surprised when Lisle got Steve up enough to make it to the table, his arm in a sling but looking less peaky than he had that morning. Bucky served his plate up with a kiss to the top of Steve's head, he was so pleased.

He slept that night on the sofa again, though stayed in bed with Steve while he drifted off.

“Dinner was really good.” Steve smiled and snuggled a little closer. “You always were awesome at cooking.”

“Stop flattering me, it's a little too obvious,” Bucky teased. He brushed Steve's hair off of his forehead and kissed just above one eye, then the other. “Rest, baby. You got a helluva day ahead of you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but you'll be with me,” Steve said as his eyes drifted shut. “You can distract me with bad jokes.”

“The worst,” Bucky promised.

“You still pissed at me?”

“Like you wouldn't believe. Shall I pencil our fight in for day after tomorrow?”

Steve laughed. “Can't I get a day to recover?” he protested.

“Why d'you need more than eighteen hours?” Bucky demanded. “Even _before_ you were a super-soldier, you'd've been ready for a fight by then.”

Steve stuck his tongue out a little bit. “I'm ignoring you. Sleeping now.”

Bucky laughed softly. “Sleeping now,” he agreed, and kissed Steve lightly. “Love you.”

“L'yuh too,” Steve mumbled, and drifted off.

“Day after tomorrow,” Bucky whispered, and kissed Steve's temple, and went to go read on the sofa until he could sleep as well.

 

Bucky figured out how to sit so his back was to Lisle and Sam. There was no way he was going to be able to watch them work, and anyway, he was here for Steve.

There was an IV running to Steve's extended right arm, so holding hands was pretty well out, but Bucky figured out how to settle on the bed, even with Steve's waist. The two of them could talk, and he could ignore that his beloved was undergoing intensive surgery. Mostly ignore it, anyway.

“How you feeling?” he asked softly, cupping Steve's face in one hand, gently turning his head to Steve's right, so all he could see was Bucky.

“Good.” Steve giggled softly, and Bucky leaned over to kiss him, because he was _adorable_ like this. They'd given him a mega-dose of Valium and put a block at his shoulder, so no pain could get through – Lisle hoped. And Bucky was here, to distract and love on and soothe.

“Okay kids, we're going in,” Sam said. “Steve, I'm serious, don't watch this, it fucks with your head. Bucky, ditto.”

“Don't have to tell me twice,” Bucky said fervently, and pulled out his big guns. He smiled softly at Steve and tickled under his chin a little. “Hey babydoll, look at me. Yeah, like that. Tell me about what we'll do when we can go back to Brooklyn. What d'you want to do first?” He had maybe ten percent faith that they'd go back home and do what they liked, but Steve, of course, had one hundred percent faith, so Bucky was going to run with that.

Steve's smile was  _transcendent_ . “Well, I'd tell you, but Sam and Lisle can hear us.”

“No sexy shit,” the two of them said. Loudly. And in unison.

“No sexy shit,” Bucky agreed, making a face. “Okay, _after_ that, what d'you want to do?”

“Call a realtor.” Steve giggled at the look this earned him. “I'm serious. We actually have enough money to buy a place, even in this shitty insane market. I want us to get a home, love. Just for us.”

Bucky, despite himself, melted. “Me too, baby. What d'you want it to be like?”

“Big. A kitchen with plenty of room for you. A dining room big enough so we can throw dinner parties, and a cozy living room.” Steve closed his eyes, still smiling, and Bucky was aware of motion close to him, of sounds he didn't want to think about, but Steve's voice and face were his whole world, so he stuck with that. “A bedroom with good light. A room I can have as a studio, and a room for you, for a library or whatever you want it to be, a place that's all yours, love.” 

Bucky laughed unsteadily. “Throw in a spare bedroom, too. Or two.”

“I always did like you best,” Sam contributed.

Steve chuckled softly. “Maybe we can find a whole house, not just an apartment. Make it our place, fill it up with things we love 'n' people we love, and make our life there.” He opened his eyes and smiled softly at Bucky. “No more pain, no more killing, ever, baby. You doing what you love, and coming home at the end of the day, free as can be. That's what I want for our home.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “Me too, love. Long as you're there, it'll be a good home.”

“Always.” Steve grinned. “Aside from the obvious, what do _you_ want to do?”

“Walk,” Bucky said. “I just...want to pick a direction, and walk. I want skyscrapers and people, and I want to be in a city and have that anonymity. I want to see what's changed, and then get coffee somewhere and people-watch. I just...want to be in the world,” he finished softly. 

“We'll do that,” Steve promised him, and Bucky managed a smile. And to run his thumb over the sharp line of Steve's cheekbone.

“You hanging in there okay?” he asked softly, and Steve nodded.

“Don't feel anything. Just having a good conversation with my boyfriend.” He smiled slyly. “Gonna cuddle when I get my arms back.”

Bucky giggled. “Yeah. I like that.” They could definitely fight tomorrow, but today was for sweetness, and taking care of his baby. He caressed Steve's face again. “What d'you want for dinner, love?"

Steve gave a one-armed shrug. “Everything's fine, you know that.” He winked. “A kiss from my best guy.”

“Sam, you hear that? You wanna borrow some lip balm?” Bucky said.

“Excuse _me_ , like I'm not ready for such things at all times,” Sam shot back.

Bucky snickered. But he also leaned over and kissed Steve, quick and gentle.

“I know you don't believe me,” Steve said quietly. “But I promise you. Bucky, I _promise_. You'll be free again someday. You'll be able to do what you want, and never fight or kill again. I promise you.”

Bucky gave him a shaky smile. “Shit, who can argue with that?”

And the hell of it was, he couldn't. It was impossible  _not_ to believe Steve. At least a little.

They talked softly while Sam and Lisle worked, Bucky focused entirely on Steve's face, on holding his eyes, on distracting him. Tension had started to fill his body, the first tendrils of pain, when Sam hurried from the room and Lisle stripped off her gloves and rested a hand on Bucky's shoulder.

“It's done,” she said gently, and smiled at them. “Steve, you're doing great. How do you feel?”

He frowned. “Okay. I still can't feel anything in my arm.”

“Good. We'll start you on pain medication before it can wear off, but tell me if you're in any discomfort.” She squeezed Bucky's shoulder, then Steve's. “Take all the time you want to rest, but I want to get you up and moving around. It'll help more than you think.”

“I believe it. Thanks, Lisle.” Steve smiled, and looked down at his hand, swathed in bandages. “Thank you so, so much.”

“You're welcome.” Lisle adjusted the bags flowing into Steve's IV line, put a few things on a tray, and left them to themselves, presumably to go help Sam with the clean-up.

Bucky reached over Steve's body to curl his fingers around the mass of white gauze that was Steve's hand. He carefully didn't touch, but cupped his hand around the very edge of Steve's fingertips, just visible. “Hey you,” he murmured. “Love you.”

“Love you too. C'mere,” Steve said, and carefully moved his right hand so that his arm almost went around Bucky as he lay down, head pillowed on Steve's shoulder. “It's gonna be okay.”

“I know.” Bucky closed his eyes and turned his head, pressing his mouth against soft, body-warmed fabric stretched over Steve's chest. “We'll make it be okay.”

“Hell yeah.” Steve leaned his head against Bucky's. “Stay here with me? I mean, for today?”

“Promise.” Like anything was gonna pry him away from his baby anytime soon. Bucky draped his arm over Steve's waist and snuggled close, head on his chest, and they dozed together in the afternoon sunlight.

Bucky was just about aware when Lisle came in to check on them, and smiled when she put her hand on his shoulder. “You can stay there,” she murmured, and got the IV out of Steve's hand. She lifted his arm and draped it around Bucky's shoulders.

Steve smiled in his sleep.

“Gag me with a spoon,” Lisle whispered to Bucky, who giggled quietly.

“Everything went okay?” he whispered to her.

“Perfect. I'll give him a few hours before I check the stitches, but after seeing how you did, I figure he'll be mostly healed by then,” Lisle murmured. 

Bucky nodded, smiling a little. Steve would be fine. He could get bionic fingers, like Bucky's arm, or not, and not miss too much dexterity. His fever was gone, and he'd be up and around before Bucky knew it.

Lisle mussed Bucky's hair, then left them to their nap. Bucky shifted so he could hear Steve's heartbeat, and dozed, letting the peace of the oncoming evening wash over him, and remembering that, sometimes, good things did happen. Steve hadn't died. His injuries were serious, but not life-threatening, and he could adapt. They'd have their knock-down fight, and love each other all the more afterwards.

Maybe, possibly, there were more good things on the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: Bucky goes into a fair amount of detail, describing how he found Steve the night they left the cabin. You may want to skip to the semi-angry sex.

“Let me see?”

Steve smiled and held his hand out, and Bucky wrapped his hands around it gently, thumbs stroking the back of his hand. The scar was pink and new, neat with its little line of stitches.

“I'm not hurting you?” Bucky asked.

“Not at all,” Steve assured him, and turned his hand, curling the remaining fingers around Bucky's. “It's not even sore.”

“Good.” Bucky raised Steve's hand, and kissed the back of it. Kissed his knuckles and then, very lightly, ran kisses down the scar, the chunk of hand that was missing now. This was his baby, for the rest of their lives.

“You sap,” Steve whispered, but his voice wobbled, just a little bit.

“You fucking moron. You could have died.”

“But I didn't.”

“But you _could have_.” Bucky's voice was low, almost a growl. “We had a better solution. We could have done it without...this.”

“I couldn't. Bucky, I couldn't see you...” Steve took a deep breath and closed his eyes tight, his hand like iron around Bucky's fingers. “When we were little, before, you were always healthy. I thought it was the weirdest, most amazing thing. You had baby fat during the Great Depression! You were always bigger and stronger.” He raised Bucky's hands to his mouth, kissed them softly. “You were so strong. I never saw you...not.” He looked up. “Until I got called into a room, and you were unconscious. Bucky...you looked like a skeleton. Like the people in Europe who were starving to death, while we brought war to their doorstep. Your face was so sharp...your hands. I could see the bones in your wrist.” He took a deep breath. “And you were dying. I could smell it on you – you know the smell. My beautiful, strong friend was dying, looked already dead. You were covered in bandages, had that huge cast, had the neck brace, and you were skinnier'n I ever was; weaker too. The _old_ me could have carried you around; you weighed as much as a feather.”

Steve took a shuddering breath. “I'm a coward. You know it, and you're right to know it and call me that. But I couldn't cause you more pain after that. I couldn't chance hitting something wrong, and you bleeding out. We're not immortal, and I couldn't deal with you being hurt so badly, being close to death, again. You've been through so many horrors, so much shit that no man should ever, ever have to face. I was a coward but I didn't have to cause you pain, I didn't have to chance hurting you deeply, even...” He couldn't finish.

Bucky was breathing hard.

“You didn't have to see me in pain, you mean,” he growled. “Because my God, Steve. How could you do that to me?”

Steve closed his eyes.

“No, _look_ at me,” Bucky demanded. “Look me in the eye, so I can tell you what I found. I woke up alone in bed. I figured it out pretty quick, and went outside, and you were there. Your skin was dead. You know the look. I tried to pick you up, but you were frozen in place. I got you inside, and it was like you were made of wood. That's what frozen human body feels like.” He took a deep, raw breath. “You didn't have a heartbeat or pulse, of course, but I sat by the fire and held you as best I could. If you were dead, I wanted your spirit to know you were loved. If you were dead, I wanted to hold you one last time. If you were alive, I wanted to be there, to feel your pulse re-start, and I did.” 

Steve was weeping, but Bucky was well beyond that.

“That's what you made me see, and do. You fucking coward. You couldn't deal, so you made me survive _that_.”

“Fuck,” Steve said, and bent his head. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I knew it was...I'm sorry, Bucky.”

“Good. You better be.” Bucky raised his chin. “You do that again, and I will sit down right beside you, and freeze to death with you.”

Steve made a small, aching sound.

“No, I mean it.” Bucky shook his head. “No more, for either of us. You know you're not gonna have to see me like that again.” He moved their hands, rested Steve's hand on his side. “Feel me. Plenty of muscle and fat there, yeah?” He smiled a little. “I'm healthy. I'm free, or something like it. You won't ever have to see me like that again, love.”

Steve nodded, and squeezed his hand. “I can't make you the same promise,” he said softly. “I have to fight.”

“I know. I love you for that,” Bucky said gently. “If you get hurt in battle, hell, if you get killed, it'll break my heart, darlin'. Break it forever, 'cause I'll still love you forever. But I'll keep going. People live with broken hearts all the time.” He leaned in and kissed Steve's forehead. “I'll protect your legacy, if nothing else. But. If you put yourself in danger for me again, whatever you've done, I'll be right behind you doing it too. Don't you ever harm yourself for me again, because if you survive, I'll be gone. I can't live like this, baby.”

“I won't. I promise. I'm sorry.”

Bucky moved so they were holding each other. “I know. You fucking well better be.” He kissed Steve's neck. “I'm sorry you had to see me in such a bad way.”

“Not your fault.”

“So they tell me.” Bucky held him tighter. “I'm going to be angry at you for a long time. But I love you, Steve. Don't ever forget how much I love you.”

“Don't think I could,” Steve said, holding back just as tight. “I won't do it again, Buck, I promise. I won't put you through that again.”

“Good.” Bucky sighed, and hid his face in Steve's shoulder for a moment. “I gotta talk to someone about this, though. It's not over.”

“Yeah.” Steve started to stroke his hair, the odd feeling of his abbreviated hand noticeable. “A lot of that's my fault, I know. Just want you to get care, and know you're safe and loved and free.”

Bucky smiled a little. “Getting there.”

 

That afternoon, Bucky was reading stretched out on the bed when Steve slipped in beside him.

Bucky set his book aside and turned over, opening his arms, already tilting his head for a kiss when Steve pressed ever closer.

“Hey sweetheart,” Steve murmured, kissing his way down Bucky's throat. “God, I missed this.”

Bucky laughed softly. “It's been less than a  _week_ .”

“Uh huh. Missed it.”

“God, you're like a teenager.”

Steve smirked and dropped his hand to cup the front of Bucky's pants. “So're you.”

“I never said I wasn't.” Bucky giggled and kissed deep. And groaned, when Steve squeezed a little, his hand rubbing, gliding along the fabric covering the length of Bucky's cock. “Steve...”

“What do you want?” Steve murmured, hauling him a little closer, his hand warm as it worked his cock over. “Anything, baby. I just wanna make you happy.”

“Sweet-talker.” Bucky reached for a searing kiss. “We got lube?”

“What do you take me for?” Steve smirked. “We got plenty.”

“Fuck me. Hard. So I feel you _tomorrow_. So as soon as I wake up, I remember this 'cause I'm so sore.”

Steve hissed at Bucky's words, eyes rolling back in his head for a moment, and he wrapped his hand around the back of Bucky's head, a hard, biting kiss. “Think the bed'll take us?”

“I have faith in Howard,” Bucky said, and started laughing, which set Steve off, and they spent a good long time giggling and biting each other, kisses turning hard as they wrestled in the big bed. Bucky laughed as he pinned Steve, and laughed harder when Steve flipped him over onto his back, holding his arms and legs down. 

Bucky squirmed, carefully arching his back so he could rub against Steve, who rolled his hips right back. “We're evenly matched, fucker.”

“You wish.”

Bucky laughed out loud, and freed himself from Steve's hold in moments, only to yank Steve down on top of him, arms and legs like iron bands around his lover. “ _You_ wish, you mean.”

Steve growled and went for Bucky's neck, licking and biting gently and making Bucky moan and go weak. They were rolling their hips against each other by now, hungry for friction, and Bucky shoved his hands under Steve's waistband, squeezing hard at his ass. “Why do we have clothes on?”

“We really _are_ dumb,” Steve agreed, and it took five times longer than necessary as they tried to undress each other, taking turns holding the other down and yanking clothes off as they squirmed, fought back, gloried in their bodies. Bucky was the slightest bit gentle with Steve's left hand, and rapidly paid for it by being held down on his belly, Steve's forearm across the back of his neck, while Steve yanked his pants down.

Bucky very nearly came then and there. Instead he pressed his face into the bed, hissed, and tried to think about baseball.

“You fucking hot...” Steve groaned and kissed his way down Bucky's spine, letting him up when he reached the soft curve of his ass. “God, you're so beautiful.”

“Yes. Yes I am.” Bucky laughed and sat up, stretching to show off his back muscles, then twisting around to grab Steve close. They kissed, hard, bodies twining together.

“How do you want to be?” Steve asked. “On your back?” They loved fucking like that, so they could see each other and kiss when they liked.

Bucky shook his head, scratching a fingertip along Steve's thigh. “You behind me. Please.” He grinned. “Easier to go harder that way.”

Steve laughed and squeezed Bucky's ass, hard. “Yeah, I think I can do that.” He pulled Bucky in for a searing kiss, hands tight on Bucky's thighs to pull his legs apart. “Lube. Open yourself up. Metal hand.”

Bucky rocked his head back and moaned but did as he was told, reaching for the bottle and coating his hand. He worked one finger into himself quickly, sprawling his legs on the bed so Steve could easily see.

Bucky grinned to see Steve lick his lips, almost unconsciously wrapping his hand around his own cock. He made sure to moan and roll his hips as he added more lube, and another finger, working them into his hole, thrusting them in and out. Tiny motions, but ones that made the plates of his fingers rub against his rim.

“Oh, God, yeah, baby. Another,” Steve whispered, and Bucky's eyes really _did_ roll back into his head as he stretched himself. The plates were rigid, hard, his arm gleaming against his too-pale skin – stupid winter – and he wailed as he curved his fingers, the sensation too much.

“Oh, fuck, baby, yeah, come for me. Just take the edge off,” Steve encouraged, leaning over to push Bucky's hand in deeper, pushing him into thrusting faster. “Gorgeous.”

Bucky was sweaty with come all over his belly, legs spread and metal hand halfway in his ass. But damned if he didn't believe Steve in that moment. Anyone would have, the way Steve was looking at him, the sincerity – the  _awe_ – in his voice.

“Fuck me,” Bucky begged. “ _Please_ Steve.”

“Like you gotta ask twice,” Steve breathed. “On your hands and knees, Bucky. Please.”

Bucky shuddered and pulled his fingers free, shifting to hands and knees in the middle of the big bed. He was a mess, but his cock was already twitching again, filling as soon as he felt Steve behind him, huge and warm.

Bucky gave a little start at the feel of Steve's hand, abbreviated now. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“Shhh. We just gotta get used to it,” Steve murmured back, rubbing Bucky's belly. “God, you're so good.” He wrapped his hand, slick with Bucky's own come, around Bucky's cock and pumped until it was hard, curving up Bucky's belly. “Much better.”

“Thought you were gonna fuck me.” Bucky yelped when this got him a smack on the thigh, and laughed out loud, Steve joining in.

“What the fuck, being impatient is _my_ thing,” Steve teased him. “You a shitty sniper now?”

“I am if it'll get your cock in me sooner.”

Steve groaned, leaned over, and bit the flesh of Bucky's ass. “You. Are. Awful.”

“Uh huh.” Bucky gave a wiggle, and sighed when finally heard the cap of the lube bottle pop. Steve squirted it generously onto his dick, and then lined up, hands hard on Bucky's thighs.

With his lover barely  _touching_ him, Bucky sighed and let his arms go out from under him, his ass still high in the air, legs apart and Steve kneeling between them, his head now resting on his forearms.

Steve breached his rim, and pushed in – and none too slowly, either. He was big, but not so thick as to be painful, and Bucky moaned, long and low, as Steve slid home.

“Oh. Oh, yes. Yes, baby, that,” Steve breathed. “You're the best medicine, baby. My guy. Just need to fuck you and everything in the world is perfect.”

Bucky gave a shaky laugh, then gave himself over to Steve's sweet dream-world. For this moment, anyway, everything  _was_ perfect. Steve drawing out and then thrusting hard, the slap of skin on skin, the raw sex of it all, of Bucky practically displaying his ass. Of the way Steve set up a steady, hard rhythm, unafraid to plow into Bucky, to make the bed shake.

Shake, but hold, even as long as they drew it out. Bucky moaned, leaned back, begged for more, and Steve gave it to him, the sound of skin on skin obscene, and the cock in his ass so, so good. Steve started to jack him off as he moved faster, and Bucky howled, pressing his face into the bed, the lush feelings blossoming through him all but unbearable.

“Fuck. Fuck, I'm gonna--” Steve had one hand on Bucky's hip and the other on his shoulder, holding him down, pounding into him, and Bucky just spread his knees more, tried to tilt his hips, and saw stars when Steve thrust into him, started to tremble, and Bucky could _feel_ him coming, feel the pressure, feel Steve holding him down with hands like iron.

Bucky must have orgasmed somewhere in there, but it was lost in the swirl of feeling, of the starriness and the distant sensation that couldn't, quite, pierce the cloud of bliss around him.

He came back to himself lying on his side, Steve still panting and lying next to him. With a groan, Bucky rolled over and onto his lover, making Steve laugh, just a little breathlessly.

“Fuckin' amazing,” Steve murmured, and Bucky nodded, relaxing onto his human mattress. His ass was throbbing and he could feel bruises on his hips, on his shoulder. It would all fade soon, so he savored it while he could.

They dozed together, Steve's hands slow and lazy, rubbing Bucky's back. Everything was still, desert-quiet, as the sun moved across the sky and the shadows changed. Bucky gave an involuntary little shiver – it was hardly cold, but  _still_ – and that broke the spell.

“Oh, we're _gross_ ,” Steve observed, as they unstuck themselves from each other.

Bucky yowled, because his cock had somehow got practically glued to Steve's thigh, but he was well-comforted with a little kiss and a cuddle.

“Fuckin' _hell_ ,” he groaned, pulling himself up and taking a few heavily-limping steps. “I'm outta practice. You gotta fuck me like that a lot more, baby.”

“Oooh, my life's such a hardship.” Steve laughed and swung Bucky up in to a bridal carry. “C'mon, you just need a shower.”

“Uh huh. With my big, strong superhero,” Bucky cooed, batting his eyes at Steve, who cracked up, threatened to drop him, dropped him with enough telegraphing that someone in Moscow could have predicted it, and pretended it was hilarious when Bucky landed lightly, crouching in front of Steve.

“Jesus Lord, what happened to the übermensches of our childhood,” he mourned aloud, rising gracefully and hauling Steve over his shoulder in the same motion. “These superheroes today – the blood runs thin in this generation. Ah, but it's a poor world we live in, Steven.”

“If you could  _ not _ imitate your mother right after we've had sex, I would appreciate it,” Steve  told the small of Bucky's back, where his eye-level currently was. Having his face almost bumping against the world's most delicious ass was his new favorite thing.

“I do what I want,” Bucky informed him, heading into their bathroom and starting the shower. He was under the hot spray before he let Steve down.

They kissed, of course, half-assedly cleaning each other off in between. Teasing as they scrubbed each other down, and Bucky insisted on washing Steve's hand. So Steve batted away all attempts to stop him washing the scarred place where Bucky's metal arm met his skin.

L ingering kisses between soaping each other down, rinsing off, then finally Steve reaching around to turn the water off, his arms still  loose around Bucky. They dried each other off, quieter now. Easier than they had been; maybe the easiest they'd been with each other since before the war, Bucky reckoned, thinking about is as he got dressed.

 

They showed up to dinner and Lisle examined them both, going so far as to turn Steve's face in the light. “Well, no black eyes,” she said. “Well done, boys.”

Bucky snorted. “You'd think we didn't know what a sock full of nickels was for.”

Lisle rolled her eyes. “The rest of the world thinks you're so tough, the both of you. I know better though.”

“Good. You wanna be a character witness?” Tony asked, looking up from an e-mail. “Got a note from Bernie, here. Things are starting to happen, Barnes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! Sorry updates have been a little slower than usual :)
> 
> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	21. Chapter 21

Bucky sat down hard, and took a deep breath. “What...what do I need to do?” he asked, ready for every answer from 'move to Argentina' to 'they're coming to lock you up tomorrow say your goodbyes now'.

Steve hovering behind him didn't really help with his increased heart rate, but then again, probably nothing would.

“Eat dinner,” Lisle said firmly.

“What she said.” Tony tilted his head, regarding Bucky with the piercing gaze that reminded him that, really, this was an extremely intelligent man. “Bernie'll want to talk to you tomorrow. So does your therapist. There's a secure line in Dad's old office you can use.” He blinked, and hit a few buttons on his StarkPad. “Oh, you should probably have an e-mail address. Don't worry, I'll take care of that.”

“A _usable_ e-mail address, please,” Lisle said, serving up dinner for everyone. Someone set a bowl in front of Bucky, and he started to eat automatically. “I know you, Tony. Bucky needs something _other_ than a terrible pun.”

“You never let me have any fun,” Tony told her. 

“Are we going to have to go anywhere? Does Bucky need to appear in court?” Steve was still hovering. “Do you need me to testify on his behalf? I'll do anything...”

Bucky gave him an amused look. “Steve, sit down and eat, you're making me jumpy.”

“I just wanna know what to expect,” Steve grumbled, settling in a chair.

The answer to that was, of course, 'bad things', but Bucky didn't  want  to push things when they were still a  little bit  careful with each other.

“Please, appearing in court is for people who don't have extremely good lawyers on retainer,” Tony said, finally putting his StarkPad aside and digging in.

“Looking for a settlement?” Sam asked.

“Obviously,” Tony agreed. “A trial is...an unnecessary inconvenience. Questions can be asked by video, if vitally necessary.” He looked up and met Bucky and Steve's gazes in succession. “That means you guys can keep chilling out in Dad's house. Rent-free. Discreetly hidden away.”

“Thanks, Tony,” Bucky said dryly, but he couldn't help a smile. “Thanks, for real. You wanna perv on my arm tomorrow?”

“Day after, I gotta dip myself in bleach after the implications of that,” Tony said. He narrowed his eyes, and Bucky gazed back, steady and unafraid. “The rest of you know Bucky better than I do. He'd say no if he could?”

“He knows what he's offering,” Lisle said promptly.

“Seconded,” Sam chimed in.

Steve was quiet for a moment, and reached for Bucky's hand, wrapping around the metal plates. “He means it, Tony. It's okay.” He smiled at Bucky, squeezed, and let go. “He might win for most mentally healthy super-soldier these days.”

Bucky snorted. “You. Talking to someone. Tomorrow.”

Steve waved him off, but Bucky also knew that he would do so, if only out of fear of being bullied further into it. Besides, Sam and Lisle and likely Tony had his back.

He and Steve cleaned up after dinner and the household stayed up way too late watching Indiana Jones. (Steve's critique of Indy's Nazi-punching technique reduced Sam to actual tears of laughter, and Bucky took pictures of it with Lisle's phone and it was the actual best.) In addition to the glorious joys of faux-archaeologists fighting Nazis, it meant that Bucky didn't have to think about, or talk about, anything else when he finally  properly  tumbled into bed with his lover for the first time in far too long. 

Sex had been wonderful, of course it had. But it wasn't the same as shoving pillows where they were most wanted and tussling a little over the blanket. It had been the same ritual when they were kids, and Bucky still only won about half the time.

This time he _did_ win, considering that he wormed his way into Steve's arms, head resting on his shoulder. He could bring his hand up, palm flat on Steve's chest, and feel his heart beating.

“Love you,” Steve whispered, and kissed Bucky's forehead. “Sweet dreams.”

Bucky tilted his head to kiss Steve's shoulder, the fabric of his shirt soft against Bucky's mouth. “Sleep well.” A quiet pause. “I love you, Steve.”

“Everything's gonna be okay,” Steve murmured.

“Uh huh,” Bucky said. Talking was for another time. Now was for sleeping, and grabbing a quiet moment of joy.

He'd forgotten that Steve didn't do quiet moments.

“It is. I swear to you.” Steve's hands were tight on his back. “Whatever happens, we'll make a home together. Anywhere in the world we go, we'll love each other and make a home. I swear, Bucky.”

Bucky nodded, eyes closed tight. Fuck, this was Steve Rogers. He could believe in this.

Sleep took its time coming, but not as long as Bucky had feared, and until then, he could lie still and feel Steve's heartbeat, and listen to their breathing match rhythms.

 

* * *

 

Howard's office had clearly been redone in the intervening years, much to Bucky's relief. It was a small, simple room: a big desk, a chair, a love seat and a low bookshelf, all of it in the faux-midcentury modern that Steve and Bucky could spot in an instant and apparently no one else could.

First was his e-mail address. Both of them; Tony couldn't resist and Bucky now had access to jbbarnes@stark.net and comradeshiny@stark.net.

“Comrade Shiny?”

“I panicked. You come up with something just the right level of mildly offensive to Captain America when you've only had half a pot of coffee,” Tony defended himself.

Bucky couldn't stop a grin. “Stark.”

“I know. I'm a genius.”

“Tony. We're going to get along _so well_ ,” Bucky informed him. “What's Steve's e-mail address? I have to send him sixteen cat pictures. Right now.”

“You're right,” Tony said dreamily. “We're going to get on _just fine_.”

After Bucky had ensured that Steve would come back from his run to a properly annoying volume of messages (or maybe he'd get the notifications while he was  _running_ in the  _desert_ like a moron, a man could only dream), Tony actually gave him some privacy.

Teleconferencing with Bernie wasn't so bad. She was an intense middle-aged woman, who reminded him of some unholy combination of all of his auntie s,  with the  added  viciousness and tenacity of a Spetsnaz officer. Which he informed her.

She preened for a whole minute after that.

Their conversation was brief and to the point. He was to sit tight, stay under the radar, and let her do her job, which was something Bucky had exactly zero problem with. He would probably have to be interviewed; preferably on video and a comfortable number of miles from a courtroom. That would, likely, be the extent of what was required from him.

“It's really quite a simple case,” she explained. “When you get to the root of it. There's plenty of precedent, and I see no reason we'll need to go to trial. You may have been aware of what was happening, but you _very clearly_ had no control over your actions. Therefore you're not responsible for them.” She looked over the edge of her glasses at him. “That is the heart of our argument. That you are a victim, but primarily that you are _innocent_ , Bucky.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “Thank you,” he said. “For this.”

She smiled for a fraction of a second. “ It's literally  right there in the Constitution, that you're guaranteed this .” 

Bucky listened as she went over a few more things, answering questions as needed, and giving her his new e-mail address.

“I'll be in touch if I need anything else.” She smiled again, that tight, careful smile. “Try to enjoy yourself, Bucky. This is my problem to solve, not yours.”

Bucky nodded, and tried to believe her. And, to be fair, he was starting to feel a little surplus to requirements; literally the best thing he could do was be quiet, and let her go about her work.

Lunch was leftovers and Steve sighing loudly at him about the cat pictures, so Bucky changed  Steve's lock screen to a picture of himself sticking his tongue out and went to go curl up with a book until  his beloved boyfriend discovered the picture or he had his therapist appointment, whichever came first.

Said loser boyfriend was busy doing something or other with Sam, though, so Bucky returned to the quiet little office for the next two hours. His conversation with Bernie had been...pleasingly un-dramatic, he decided. Maybe something almost hopeful.

It wasn't that the next two hours weren't hopeful, but they were far from easy, and decidedly, if not dramatic, then very full of emotion. And even then, it felt like only the barest chip away at a mountain. At the end of it all – when, really, they had just made a plan for the next few days,  _really_ that was the meat of it – Bucky shut the laptop down and let himself sit in the chair and shake until his body exhausted itself and his mind calmed enough to stand up, leave the room, and walk to the safety of the little bedroom that had become the center of his life.

Steve was there, reading on the sofa. As soon as Bucky closed the door behind him, he stood up and held his arms open.

Bucky made a beeline for him, folding himself in, face going into the curve of his neck, letting the solid bulk of Steve Rogers, polestar for his entire life, come around him.

“Hard session?” Steve murmured in his ear, and Bucky shrugged.

“Yeah,” Steve murmured, and curled his hands under Bucky's bottom. “Up,” he commanded, and Bucky pulled himself up, legs coming around Steve's waist, arms tighter around his shoulders. Steve's forearms were steady under Bucky's thighs as he carried him outside, sitting down right in the sand where desert met house.

Steve was, blessedly, silent, sitting there with Bucky in his lap, the two of them tangled together. Bucky turned his head just enough to rest on Steve's shoulder and watched the sunlight move across the winter desert.

The mountains in the distance were blue, jagged and New World-raw. The desert in winter bloomed, and the sunlight was harsh on the landscape. Bucky let himself over to watching, dreamily, as shadows moved across the sand and breezes brought new smells. Steve was still and solid, arms tight around the small of his back, and a quick glimpse showed Bucky that he was equally entranced by the world around them; what might as well be a different planet from where they had grown up.

The sun arced its way to the earth, the shadows getting longer and the clear, perfect air cooling until Steve gave a little shiver.

This woke Bucky from his stupor, and when he checked his body, he found calm again, so that it was easy to turn and kiss Steve softly.

“Go inside?” he asked gently, and smiled when Steve shrugged. “C'mon. We've had enough of cold, the both of us.” He gently untangled himself and stood. And then, laughing, bent over and pulled Steve up into his arms, hauling him into the same carry he'd used on Bucky.

Steve laughed too, arms tight around Bucky, and kissed him with a solid smack. “Take me inside, baby, it's cold out.”

“You want me to warm you up?” Bucky cooed, fluttering his eyelashes.

“Yeah. With your dick.”

Bucky burst out laughing, even as he carried Steve inside and dropped him on the bed with a healthy bounce. And proceeded to warm him up. With his dick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised I didn't forget about this!
> 
> (And...wow. The end is really in sight now. I need to get a solid outline done, but I can see just a few more chapters of this...)

“Give my love to Tati and Sarah as soon as you can tell them about us? Please?” Bucky pulled Lisle into another hug. “I promise I'll visit when it's safe.” It would probably never be safe, but at least they'd know he loved them.

“You'd better,” she said warmly, and hugged him back. “Love you too, Bucky. Keep fighting, kid. We got you this far, you can keep going.”

Bucky nodded, and kissed her cheek, and finally passed her over to Steve for a round of hugs and kisses from him.

Sam was leaving too; Nat had brought the QuinJet but had more or less unilaterally decided to stay with them, and Sam had a life and things to do. He and Steve had bid each other a fond farewell, and Bucky went to shake his hand, rather touched when Sam pulled him into a rough hug.

“See you soon, I hope,” Bucky said.

“In New York,” Sam promised him, and he and Lisle headed onto the QuinJet and back to their lives.

There was a little pang, there – well, hell. Of course Bucky wanted a life that was beyond what he had, pleasant as it was. He wasn't half-dead, or alone in the wilderness. Somehow, inexplicably, no one hated him; at least, no one he cared about hated him. He spent every night and most of his days with his beloved, and Howard's digs were pretty sweet. He had a lawyer and a therapist; enough to eat and plenty to read and learn.

This wasn't the prison the cabin in the wilderness had been, but it wasn't real life either, Bucky knew. He could keep going like this, but not indefinitely.

(And Steve would have to go away and fight sometime. That was who Steve _was_.)

Luckily, Nat was now in his life, so 'boring' and 'guys, I think I might not be able to function in society' were not an issue.

“Come on loser, we're going into town. I forgot to bring shampoo,” Nat announced to him one Tuesday morning.

Bucky lowered his StarkPad. “There's shampoo in all the bathrooms.”

“But not _mine_.”

Bucky snorted and raised his StarkPad. “Natalia Romanoff, you do not use cheap-ass drugstore shampoo and we both know it.”

“Nah, that's you you're thinking of, dreamboat.” She reached down and lowered the StarkPad. “Please go along with my paper-thin excuse. We gotta get you out of the house and used to other people again. When was the last time you even _saw_ someone you didn't know?”

“I met Bernie over videoconference a few days ago?”

Natasha's Soviet Face was a thing of extraordinary skill and beauty. Bucky sighed, knowing he had been beaten before he even started, and hauled himself up off the sofa. “Let me at least put on real pants, okay?”

“Fair,” Natasha agreed, and then _followed him to the bedroom_. “I'll wait outside,” she said innocently. “Keep your dignity intact.”

Bucky snorted, got changed in record time, and, with a shrug, grabbed Steve's baseball cap and sunglasses.

“Oh not you _too_ ,” she said with disgust upon seeing them. “Ugh, that is not disguise, Barnes. You'll just look like a creeper or a movie star, and draw more attention.”

“What?” he asked, sincerely wounded. “This way no one can see my face.”

“No, they'll just see some doofus wearing sunglasses _when it's cloudy out_.”

“I'm hungover?” Bucky tried.

Nat snorted and took them from him. “You're too sharp for a baseball cap now, too. Those jeans are  _nice_ . How big's your head?” She measured around with her hands. “Ugh, you won't fit my fedora, we'll have to get you something. Maybe a flat cap.”

Bucky blinked, secretly delighted. He could definitely work a flat cap. “Okay, but seriously. You're letting me go into town without any disguise?”

“A county of less than three thousand, most of whom are not the kind of people who really care about global events,” she informed him. “You'll stick out, but as far as they know, you're just passing through. No one _remembers_ people these days, Barnes.” She crossed her arms and looked at him. “And you look really different. I mean, from the helicarrier.  And from 1943, but no one cares about that part. Your hair's a lot longer, and you're more filled-out. Get gloves on those hands and on one'll even look at you twice, kiddo.”

“Uh. Okay.” Bucky blinked and grinned. “Seriously, why are we going out?”

“Because you need to get used to people again, and I'll chew my own arm off if I have to stay here day in and day out,” she told him. “C'mon loser, get in. We're going shopping.”

Bucky gave  in , found a jacket and gloves and swiped Steve's wallet, and followed her out to the car.

Nat really must have meant for them to blend in, since she drove like a normal human being. It was a good half-hour to town if you took back roads, which she did.

The town wasn't much more than a two-lane road with actual buildings on either side. A bank at one end, a sad-looking diner at the other. A nail salon, gun shop and CVS made up most of the rest of the commercial strip, interspersed with some offices and a post office that looked shut up.

Bucky blinked and turned to her as she pulled into the CVS' parking lot. “I know we want to start me on Easy Mode, but this is something else, Nat.”

“Eh, it's close by, in case I gotta throw you in the car and haul ass out,” Nat said with a shrug. “Also, it's just off an interstate, so they'll have strangers coming through semi-regularly. We won't stand out.”

Bucky shook his head and sighed. “Right. Mission parameters?”

“None, you loser,” Nat said, and took pity on him. “We go in. I buy the least-terrible shampoo they have. Pick out something and buy it. _Separately_. You need to be the person to give money in exchange for goods. We head out and go back home.”

Bucky nodded, and followed her into the brightly-lit store. He was going to get a Coke and a candy bar, and he did, then found her in the hair aisle.

“All of these smell like a florist died three days ago,” Nat said.

Bucky sighed and pointed to a bottle. “That one.”

“That your professional opinion?”

“Nah, that's the shit Steve uses, we can give it to him,” Bucky replied. “C'mon, I want my candy bar.”

“I don't know why I do nice things for you,” Nat complained, but she grabbed the bottle of shampoo.

Bucky prayed for no small talk, and luckily got his wish. An extremely bored-looking girl rang him up, barely looking him in the face as she took his money – thanks, Steve, for always having cash – and gave him his change. She bagged the Snickers and Coke in a single, efficient movement, wished him a nice day, and returned to staring off into the middle distance.

“Well, how do you like civilization?” Nat asked as they returned to the car.

“It needs better reefer.” Bucky grinned and winked at her when she sighed loudly. “C'mon, that poor girl.”

“Whatever.” Nat started the engine up, and pointedly didn't look at him. “You did good.”

“By not freaking out in a convenience store with one other living person in it? Yay me,” Bucky said dryly.

“Fuck off and give yourself credit,” Nat said, elbowing him. “Look, did you go in there like you were on a mission? Like you had to pretend to be a real person?”

Bucky thought on that as Nat pulled out of the parking lot. “No,” he finally said. “I mean,  even if someone had asked, I'd just have said we were visiting friends in the area.” He smiled, a little surprised. “I wasn't playing a role or anything. I was...me.”

“You've got the trick of it already,” Nat said. “Of remembering how to be a person.”

Bucky turned to look at her, but her eyes were fixed on the road. So he opened the candy bar and offered her half of it instead.

 

“Get me something to eat next time,” Steve said, when Bucky delivered his shampoo to him.

“You want half my Coke?”

Steve nodded and pushed himself to sit up, taking the bottle and drinking deep. He handed it back to Bucky, and they finished it the way they'd always finished shared Cokes; almost draining it and then two tiny sips, the last one always for Steve.

“C'mere, you,” Bucky said, and pulled Steve to lie half on him. He wrapped his hand around Steve's now-abbreviated hand, thumb tracing the big scar along the side. “Wanna come with me next time? Nat's gonna take me to a bigger town. Might get lunch.”

“I'd love to,” Steve said, settling contentedly with his head on Bucky's chest. “You think I'll get recognized?”

“Nah. Maybe grow a beard first, though. Nat doesn't like the hat and sunglasses combo.”

“Why not?” Steve asked, genuinely wounded. “It hides my face!”

“Is what I told her!” Bucky shook his head, and laced their fingers together. He...kind of liked touching Steve's hand, weird as it was. Whatever, the guy practically had a fetish for Bucky's metal arm. “Kids these days. Anyway, yeah. That's out. Not gonna get as lucky as the poor bastard who checked me out today. I don't think she coulda told you my gender.”

Steve smiled and squeezed his hand. “Whatever. People don't care, actually. It sounds awful but...”

“It's not,” Bucky agreed. “It's...nice. To know that most people don't really care about me. That they got their own shit to worry about, lives to lead.” He leaned over and kissed the top of Steve's head. “People to love.”

“Mushy.” Steve snuggled a little closer. “People to love,” he agreed. “Rent to pay. Coupla old World War II vets just don't register.”

Bucky sighed deeply. “I'm ready to not matter.”

Steve nodded, and smiled when Bucky hugged him. “Any news from Bernie?”

“Not recently. She's hoping I won't even have to make a statement,” Bucky admitted. “That it'll just...be over soon.”

“What d'you want to do then?” Steve asked.

“Go home,” Bucky said immediately. “Like you said. Go back to Brooklyn. Get a place, just for us.” He paused. “Steve...if it doesn't work. If I'm found liable, then guilty. What do we do?”

“I've got a list of countries without extradition treaties,” Steve said promptly. “And a stash of local currencies. We've got a couple options for transport.”

“Oh,” Bucky said.

“You didn't think I was _really_ that optimistic, did you?” Steve pushed himself up, turning so he could meet Bucky's eyes. “I really do believe you'll be free, love. I _do_. But I'm not dumb.”

Bucky grinned at him. “No, you're not. Steve, I love you.”

“Good. I love you too.” Steve leaned over and pecked his lips. “But I'm gonna plan for good things too. You wanna get a dog?”

“Ugh, no, I already got you. Maybe a cat?”

Steve hummed. “I could do a cat.  No kittens, though.”

“Yeah. We'll go to a shelter and find a nice big moggy,” Bucky agreed, settling Steve back against his chest. “Say we do wind up in Argentina or wherever. What then?”

“We find a cheap apartment. Cities are safer than countryside,” Steve decided. “We can blend in, in a city. And it's better, to have people around.”

“Mmm.” Better for him, maybe not for Steve. “Edge of town. I want a quiet place for you.”

Steve smiled at that. “I want a place for you to walk, and always see new things.”

“I want a place where you can do what you like,” Bucky said. 

Steve laughed. “Punch people?”

Bucky socked him in the belly. “You can punch me, asshole.”

“Nah, you punch back,” Steve said, pinching his thigh hard. 

Bucky yelped and punched back, and laughed when Steve whapped his chest with his open palm. “Someday you're gonna stop pulling your punches with me.”

“Pot, the kettle called...”

Bucky smiled and kissed him. “Point. Hey, I love you. We gotta get a shitty place on the edge of town somewhere? Still gonna love you.”

“We gotta pay some fuckin' obscene house price because you fell in love with some belle epoque monstrosity in DUMBO?” Steve parroted back. “Still gonna love you. Probably.”

Bucky cracked up and pulled Steve up into his arms and they necked away the rest of the afternoon. They didn't even bother to get undressed, just made out and felt each other up and laughed like the giant fucking losers they both knew they were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...well, it's not the longest break I've taken while writing a long story?

“Hey babe, you free this afternoon?”

“Mmm. Maybe.” Bucky looked up from his book. “I've got therapy at two and it's fifty-fifty on how I'll be when that's over.”

Steve made a sympathetic sound. “It's not a big deal. But if you're up to it, there's an actual hiking trail. Just a few miles, but the desert's pretty awesome right now.”

Bucky leaned up for a kiss. “I'll let you know, babe.”

Steve touched his face, and tapped the end of his nose. “If we don't go today, it'll still be there another time.”

Bucky just smiled, and went back to his book. Steve was a dork.

That afternoon, Bucky asked JARVIS to relay to Steve that he needed to be alone. He'd co-opted a tiny room for his own use. He kept the desk and chair, and added some pillows and a blanket. There was a single window, high up and easily hidden from. Howard, good bro that he was, had apparently soundproofed every room in the house, and it was good place to deal with things he didn't want anyone else to see.

The next day, though, he had off from therapy and off from Tony prodding at his arm and off from everything. He and Steve drank their coffee and read the papers in the sunken pit in the living room. The shag carpeting was still pristine, and Bucky in particular enjoyed lounging on it, wriggling his toes in the long, soft yarns.

Steve huffed about outdated looks, while Bucky wriggled happily, the sound of his boyfriend's bitching music to his ears. Huh, did they still sell rugs like this? “Steve, lemme see your phone a minute?”

“Here,” Steve said, and tossed it over. Bucky had to reach, but he did catch it. Jesus, it hadn't been the poor vision, Steve was just _really bad at pitching_ it turned out.

Well. Only in a baseball context.

Smirking, Bucky did a quick Google search, and made sure to bookmark what he found. The really rainbow-y one would look great in the living room. “Hey Steve?” he asked, “Anything stoppin' me from getting a phone of my own?”

“Hmm?” Steve actually looked up from the sports page for that. “Well, not really. I mean, you can get one through the Avengers easy as anything.”

Bucky shrugged. “What if...Look. I just wanna be a normal person and walk into a store and buy a cell phone, you know?”

Steve grinned and rolled over, reaching out to lace his fingers with Bucky's. “I know. Okay, so you need like a fixed address and a bank account and stuff for a contract, so that's maybe gotta wait. But we can walk into a store and get you set up with pay-as-you-go stuff that day. You can still do that with cash if you gotta.” He tugged Bucky in for a kiss. “Sound good?”

Bucky nodded, and kissed Steve again. Was anyone else home? Probably. He kept it non-scandalous, on that theory. “Sounds good,” he said, and shoved Steve away to go back to the paper and his coffee and stop being a dweeb. “Maybe go into town and get lunch?”

“Hell yeah,” Steve said, and Bucky – well. Bucky let himself hear the glow of pride in Steve's voice, and let himself be proud. He'd be fine. Nat had said he'd done great, his therapist had been _really_ impressed, and it wasn't like they were driving to Vegas. Just the nearest town with a diner and a phone store.

 

That nearest town with both of those things turned out to be just over an hour away, but they loaded up the car with Nat and Nat's playlist for driving and, after the first twenty minutes of Steve being terrifyingly in control, Nat's actual driving. Bucky was more than happy to hang out in the back seat, watching the landscape go by. Highways were peaceful, at least out here where they saw another car about once in a never.

Bucky had, with Tony's reluctant help, recently learned that he  _loved_ obsessively researching tech. He marched into the store knowing pretty much exactly what he wanted, and got it, loading up the account with enough cash that he would be set for a good long while. Over lunch he watched Nat and Steve program their numbers in, and then got Bernie's from Steve's phone too.

The diner they found was exactly the appropriate level of shitty to suit all of them. Bucky and Steve got cheeseburgers with all the fixings, while Nat ordered a Reuben and French Onion soup. Bucky saluted her choice, and let her steal some of his fries when their food arrived.

“So,” Nat said once they'd all taken the edge off. “I'm about twenty minutes from clawing my own face off with boredom. You think we could get JARVIS to send us some board games?”

Bucky gave her a wary look. “You ever play Monopoly with this one?” he asked, nodding towards Steve. “He draws blood.”

“Oh my God, that was _once_ ,” Steve muttered.

“Steve, I've played Trivial Pursuit with you, I know exactly how much of a sore loser you are,” Nat told him, and turned back to Bucky. “Oh, fuck Monopoly. I'm teaching you losers Pandemic.”

“Oh, yeah. Tati really liked that, she was gonna get a copy for us right before we...left,” Bucky said, only slightly missing the beat.

“You'll love it,” Nat promised, already on her phone. “Tony's _got_ to have a drop location that'll accept Amazon packages.”

Bucky grinned and got to work on his burger. It was pretty middling, but so was the diner, with its cracked fake-leather seats and funky old Formica everything. There were three other guys, seated about as far away as you could get, and everyone was absolutely  _radiating_ minding their own business. Bucky checked the exit, quickly, and then spent forty-five whole seconds watching a whole lot of nothing outside the window. The desert was kinda pretty, what he could see of it.

They took their time eating, absorbing the boredom of a normal life, before piling back into the car. Bucky played with his phone, stretched across the back seat, while Nat and Steve bickered companionably. He'd gone to a store and bought a phone, then gone out for lunch. He could, and did, text Steve a series of emojis. He mad sure to end with the eggplant and a question mark.

“I know what that _means_ , Barnes,” was Steve's cranky reply.

Bucky just grinned and tucked the phone away, stretching his legs out and watching the road run past while they drove back home.

 

* * *

 

“So, I don't have therapy today. Or a call with Bernie. Or anybody else,” Bucky said.

“Hmm? Oh, that's nice.” Steve put the last of their dishes away.

“Oh, he said, while Bucky had hold of his belt and was dragging him out of the kitchen. “ _Oh_.”

“I cannot believe people think you're smart enough to lead the Avengers,” Bucky said, still dragging him to their bedroom.

“Co-lead!” Tony cheerfully added from the sunken pit in the living room. 

“Co-lead,” Bucky graciously acknowledged, while manhandling his boyfriend down the corridor, through the door and, after hauling him over one shoulder, onto the bed with a healthy bounce.

Steve cackled and held out his arms, gathering Bucky close with happy, biting kisses. “One of us followed the other of us into war, is all I'm saying.”

“ _Technically_ you kinda followed me at first,” Bucky pointed out, sitting up, straddling Steve's waist, and pulling off his t-shirt. 

“That was down to random chance,” Steve argued, because of course he did, even with a half-naked Bucky _on top of him_.

Bucky sighed loudly and leaned over. If he had his mouth on Steve's, Steve would shut up, he figured.

He did. And, shortly after that, seemed to discover Bucky had a lot of skin out, going by the way he was running his hands over Bucky's back, squeezing his waist, slipping down the back of his jeans to grab two handfuls of ass. Bucky rolled his hips in response, grinding them together, and Steve gave a deep, long groan.

They took their time, lazy with the whole afternoon ahead of them in the long, low light. Steve's shirt came off, then his jeans, then Bucky's. Underwear followed soon after, their bodies rubbing together, both of them getting as much touch as they could. Not frantic for it, not exactly, but yearning, pressing together, hungry enough.

Bucky kissed his way down Steve's chest, metal hand working his cock over slow and soft while he enjoyed the sounds Steve was making, the soft mewls and demanding moans. He paused in kissing Steve's chest to relish the sounds, and the way Steve's hands were still strong on his shoulders. He'd know Steve's touch forever, the way the Steve knew his, and turned his hand to kiss the scarred left hand on his shoulder.

“Hey,” Steve muttered and pulled his nose, and Bucky got back to kissing and touching. 

It was extraordinary, to not have to rush. To be easy, to take time to explore each others' bodies. Bucky spent whole minutes tasting the skin of Steve's lower belly; the ridges of his Apollo's girdle. It didn't taste like anything special, but he wanted to touch anyway, to get the feel of Steve overwhelming. He kept up the lazy hand-job to be a bitch, and to keep Steve on edge, and because he loved that particular touch, and that particular pleasure.

Bucky kissed his way back up, and Steve kept him there with hand and mouth, the two of them sharing breath. Steve's mouth wandered, of course, to eyes and cheeks and throat, and the sensitive spot behind Bucky's ears that had him moaning and rutting against Steve's thigh.

This made him laugh, and flex so that Bucky had a little more to rub against, so he did, rolling his hips, grinding, showing off a little. Giving them both something to just dig in and enjoy, and they did, kissing and laughing suddenly, spontaneously. Touching, Bucky speeding up on Steve's cock while he rolled his hips and rubbed himself off with obvious glee.

Their orgasms were short, sharp, and very welcome, tumbling one after the other and leaving them holding each other tight, no need for kisses. Just holding, catching breath, then Steve finger-combing Bucky's hair, tangled with the light sweat he'd worked up. They didn't even talk, they were so content, so calm. This was normal – two boyfriends having sex, and then they'd get a shower together, or maybe apart – Bucky hogged the shower head like crazy – then dinner with their friends. And then they'd have to be men out of time again, but for right now, everything was good, and they could ignore the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD I KNOW I HATE ME TOO.
> 
> The good news: I'm getting back in the habit of writing. And this story is actually complete -- I want to edit the final chapter a lot more, but it exists, and I'll likely post it within the week.
> 
> Content warning: there's frank discussion of suicidal feelings and vague descriptions of past violence and trauma.

Spring came all at once to the desert that year. A short spate of hard rains flooded half the county, the drops pounding down cold and hard. Everyone stayed inside; they even all stayed together in the living room, watching the rare rainstorm hit the earth. Bucky was fascinated, practically glued to the window as the winter sun set.

And then, the next day – there was the first breath of heat, the clear summer air upon them, and the winter blooming desert slowly died back as the days grew longer and the sun more powerful. Steve soon opted to stay under the covered veranda, and Tony largely refused to leave the house unless it was to go straight to his car, but Bucky had had e-fucking-nough of freezing, thank you. He stripped to what was minimally acceptable and sunned himself, went running and explored the desert, and quickly tanned, with freckles coming up on his shoulders and cheeks.

Steve laughed and traced the dots with a pen until Bucky batted him away, and then scrubbed at his skin in the shower until it was clean and golden brown, ready for the next Kandinsky that Steve tried to copy in spirit.

Bucky indulged him, but only because he was also regularly going out into the desert on his own. “I'll come with you,” Steve had offered. “If you want company.”

“Honestly, I kinda don't?” Bucky admitted, and got a kiss for his troubles. “Don't pander to me and my recently-discovered bodily autonomy,” he huffed, and Steve laughed and kissed him again.

“Don't tell me what to do,” he shot back, so Bucky pinched him. “Fuck off,” he said cheerfully. “I do what I like.” 

He'd gotten addicted to these lonesome wanderings when he was exiled, and was thrilled to be able to do it again. When had he ever had the chance before? Sometime in the late thirties, he guessed, and even then it was him and like a gazillion New Yorkers. He had gone on one or two walks by himself in the Big House, but most of the time he either, you know, physically couldn't walk, or he preferred to have company. Steve  was usually his first choice , but one of the girls or Sam if Steve was busy or Bucky was going to bite his head off over something. But when he had the whole wilderness outside of his little cabin to himself? Bliss. There were no trails here, either, but he was savvy enough to navigate, and watch the sun, and spiral around and back to the house in the desert.

He set off with a distracted kiss from Steve, who immediately lost himself in his paperback, and Bucky settled into the easy rhythm of walking on uneven ground with nowhere to be at any particular time. The sun was scorching but, well. Super-soldier. Also, he quietly believed that he had enough cold inside of him to last for a lifetime, ice that was only gradually melting.

He walked until the house was nearly out of sight, and began to turn his circles, like a hawk riding thermals. Thoughts tumbled like water, and Bucky let them for the moment, fixing himself in space and letting his brain pick what it would chew over for the next hour, or four.

Bucky paused to examine a pile of rocks, and wondered if one of the scratches was a pictograph. He walked a little further in case it was, and found another boulder to sit on and have a drink of water, and feel the desert heat trapped in the rock. Might as well enjoy it; winter would come again, and he'd remember this dry heat that eased him so.

Winter. Still here? Probably not. In New York? Most likely. Bernie had an efficiency to her that Bucky respected. She explained bluntly what was happened in each call. This success, this setback. This angle. This expert, these six  _amicus_ briefs. Bucky reckoned by winter he'd be back in New York a free man.

Or on the run, somewhere in Argentina with all the old Nazis and winds on the pampas. It'd be like old times, with him and Steve, he thought with seriously black humor. Nazi hunting and cheap wine and a language he suddenly spoke perfectly – well, okay, there were some changes.

Bucky jumped down and started walking again. Plans for fleeing were firmly in place, but what plans for success? For being a free man?

There was always the sniper rifle. He was still the best marksman in the country, maybe in the world. There were the guns and the knives always waiting.

Bucky gritted his teeth and turned, walking a labyrinth that didn't exist. He could. He'd be good. He'd also be fucking miserable and sick at heart and it wouldn't end well.

(A handgun, his mouth? Maybe not. Not if it meant leaving Steve. But he'd come close.)

He maybe wasn't the most self-aware guy, but he was pretty good at it by now, and he knew it was a non-starter. Not that he had a future running peace and reconciliation councils or anything, but he couldn't fight anymore. He  _wouldn't_ , and he didn't have to. The problem  was , though, that he was madly in love with the fightiest man ever to walk the earth, and Bucky Barnes would be damned if he let Steve Rogers go into a fight without covering his six.

So, protect. That's what he had to do. Protect Steve, without picking up a weapon himself.

There were ways to do that now. To act as a center for information, whispering the secrets of the landscape to the Avengers. To clean up afterwards, to see to their responsibilities when someone's home was flattened. To research new armor tech. Weapons? Maybe. That hadn't ended well for Stark, and Bucky was pretty sure it wouldn't end so well for him. But he had options, and something like a plan.

Of course, this all relied on Bucky not rotting in a prison. Or fleeing the country; and these were not impossible things. But fleeing was easy, actually. He'd done it for years. Running and hiding was second nature; staying and building a life would take  _work_ .

He had help, though, remembering that as he turned away from the bright sun in his spiral. Against all common sense, people loved him. There was no helping Steve, the man was born touched in the head, but everyone else...they had no excuse, and they loved him. So Bucky would ask for help, and stay, and build some kind of life.

He tried to think about going shopping in a farmer's market, and let that ghost slip out of his mind. That might come someday, but right now, he'd settle for a place of his own (well, him and Steve, being honest) and a walk around a city block.

Bucky followed the invisible trail back to the ridiculous house in the desert, the house built by the man he killed, whose son told him to expect the impossible. A house where he'd paused, held his breath, and was waiting for what would come next.

 

*

 

He got back just in time for dinner, and it was nearly normal. As normal as Bucky's life got, anyway. He pondered the phrase 'a new normal' and decided aloud that that was about twenty hours of therapy ahead of where he was, at  _least_ . Steve's eyes did that stupid thing they did, but Tony clapped him on the shoulder, shoved a plate of steak and potatoes at him, and advised him to keep milking that; Tony himself had gotten several hundred hours' worth of putting off a new normal.

Bucky laughed at Steve's face, clinked his beer with Tony, ate two steaks, kissed Steve to make him smile, and helped Sam with the dishes.  
  
He got a shower after dinner, just to clean the desert off and not be gross in bed, not that Steve deserved anything else. The warm water felt good, and he loved the little, simple feeling of it in contrast to dry desert air. Spring was fully upon them; it was getting _hot_ out there.

Bucky lingered under the water, enjoying it. He drank in the pleasure of it; he always did enjoy the tactile. Never could keep his hands off his friends, growing up. That only got him in trouble with a half-dozen girls, tops, but he connected that way. Made himself real, by feeling the world around him; it allowed him to acknowledge his own actuality. And wasn't that a trick to learn, in his months of solitude? Bucky Barnes could exist with no one to touch, to bounce off of, to lead or to follow.

Guilt finally drove him from the bathroom, towel loose around his waist. He had a faint ache in his legs that would fade probably by the time he was falling asleep, but it was nice for the moment.

He flopped on the bed, making sure to get his wet hair on Steve, and they kissed lazily until Bucky rolled over and picked up his book from the nightstand. They read in happy silence until they were both sleepy, and settled down with a kiss. Bucky rolled over onto his belly to sleep, smiling when he felt Steve's hand on his ass. “You're such a romantic,” he accused.

“Shhh. I'm asleep,” Steve deadpanned, and Bucky should probably give him a whack, but it was warm and cozy and the bed was pretty nice, and he was asleep in minutes. 

He woke up in a sudden rush and gasp, eyes wide in the dark room, so much  _weight_ fuck who was holding him down who--   
Bucky heard tearing fabric, and howled, and his throat ached and that's what woke him up. Not the sheet (now ripped) tangled around him and not Steve halfway across the room desperately trying to soothe him, and definitely not the screaming he must have been doing. There was someone at the door, then, and Steve answered it, confirmed the nightmare, and went back to Bucky's side.

“You're safe,” he said, and it sounded of repetition. How many times had Steve said that, trying to rouse him?

Bucky coughed and groaned and held his hand to his mouth. No blood, but it felt like there should have been.

“You're safe,” Steve repeated, and Bucky nodded to get him to hush up already. Two slow, easy breaths, the exhale longer than the inhale and – he believed. Steve was right. Bucky might not be safe forever, but he was safe _right then_. It was the oddest feeling.

“Buck?” Steve's voice was low, still a little sleep-thick. Okay, so Bucky hadn't been screaming for hours or anything truly hellish.

“I'm back,” he said, and rubbed his face. “Ugh. I'm sorry, Steve.”

“You got nothin'--”

“Steve.” Bucky cut him off. “You're my man, right here in my bed, and I woke you up screeching like a cat. Accept the fucking apology.”

“No. 'Cause you don't gotta make one.” Steve looked as stubborn as he ever had. “None o' this is your fault.”

Bucky slumped back in bed and laughed. “Oh, for fuck's sake. What time is it? Never mind, it doesn't matter. It's never a good time to argue with you.”

“It's four-fifteen,” Steve told him, and Bucky laughed weakly again. 

“Christ. Well, I got a good chunk of sleep, at least.”

Steve made a sympathetic noise as Bucky turned on his little reading lamp.

“Go back to sleep,” Bucky said, bracing himself for a fight.

“Okay.” Steve smiled at the look he got. “What? I don't have to be a dick _all_ the time.”

“I don't trust you,” Bucky grumbled as he opened his book. He didn't really sleep again after these nightmares, for all that he didn't remember what he dreamed of. Blood? Death? Being a thing? Maybe all of these; it wouldn't surprise him. Or the snow or Steve's frozen body or any of a million other horrors locked away in his brain. It didn't much matter, really. The result was the same.

Steve stretched out on the bed next to him, scrunching down so his pillow was right next to Bucky's thigh. Bucky rested a hand on his head for a moment, scritching, then decided to leave it there for the pleasure of the contact. Steve wasn't exactly complaining, after all, and he could get a few more hours of sleep at least.

 

When Bucky woke up, sunlight was streaming through the window, and he squinted – ugh, they'd forgotten to draw the curtains again. Steve was sprawled against him, still fast asleep. Just like he'd been.

Bucky smiled at the ceiling and rolled over, smushing a little closer against Steve. Huh. He'd fallen back asleep, pretty clearly without meaning to, if the book on the floor was any indication. Well, that was new, and pretty welcome.

“Morning,” Steve mumbled, and started kissing his way across Bucky. Bucky watched him, bemused, until he reached Mount Left Tit, where he decided to linger a little.  
Bucky groaned his protest at that and shoved Steve away. “Ugh, at least let's get some coffee first.” He didn't move, though, and in fact immediately snuggled closer, shoving his face into Steve's neck.

“Hey, you fell back asleep!” Steve hugged Bucky so tight he squeaked, and pinched him to let go.

“Don't make a big thing about it,” he huffed, and Steve laughed, hugging him again, just to be obnoxious.

“That's great, honey,” he said warmly. “How you feeling?”

Bucky took a moment to actually assess. “Good?” he offered. “I feel...like I just woke up. Um. Not...not like fight-or-flight is triggered. Sleepy. Warm.” He paused, and savored the moment. “Happy.”

“Oh, Buck,” Steve said, because he was a giant sap, and suddenly they were kissing. It was morning breath-y, but also completely fucking wonderful.

Bucky went about with a little extra spring in his step, and felt utterly unashamed of it. He had fallen back asleep after a hellish nightmare, and he goosed Steve on his way to the shower in partial celebration. It was going to be an awesome day.

 

It was a day like any other, really, but he wasn't going to complain or anything; boring was  _good_ in his firm opinion. It was enough to have a good breakfast, go for a run and watch the desert, come back, shower, make love with Steve, shower  _again_ , play a round of  _Pandemic_ and settle in to read and write a bit, as requested by his therapist. If he didn't want to, he could skip it; but he wanted to so he did.  
That night he had another nightmare, as bad as the first, and though it shook him, he didn't worry so much; he could fall back asleep afterwards. Even Steve only just woke up, made sure he was out of the horror, kissed him, and drifted back off.

Sleep didn't find him this time, though; every time Bucky closed his eyes he saw dead bodies, the detritus of war. It was almost hilarious; he was remembering not his years as an assassin, but  _fighing in World War II_ which, oh yeah, was a thing he did. It felt nearly normal, but it also meant he was sleepy and dopey in the morning.

Steve frowned when he heard Bucky had not only had a second nightmare, but hadn't fallen back asleep. “Oh, honey,” he said, and reached for him. “Buck, would it help if I stayed awake, stayed with you? You can sleep late.”  
Bucky shook his head. “It's not the being alone, or whatever,” he tried to explain. “It's...” He paused and laughed. “It's because I'm a soldier. I was a soldier.” He sighed. “I should text Sam. Let him know to find us _both_ a veteran's support group.”  
“Maybe it's kind of a good sign?” Steve tried. “Like, you're working through stuff in reverse time order. I mean, being a soldier, specially young as you were, and having to deal with that is...”  
“Normal,” Bucky finished for him, and shrugged. “Who knows?” He was tired, but not exhausted or anything; maybe he'd take a nap later. And surely that night would be better.

 

He woke up again, after just a few hours of sleep, tangled in a nightmare of a mission he'd been on in Prague in the 70's. It was not a good nightmare, and he must have been screaming, because Steve was awake too.  
“South of France?” he guessed, and Bucky groaned, burrowing into the bed.  
“Prague. Winter Soldier.” Fuck, his throat hurt.   
“I'm sorry.” Soft kisses on his head. “I'll stay up with you.”  
Bucky just grunted. It wasn't meant to be mean; Steve didn't hurt anything. He didn't help anything either, though.

They lay quietly, kind of vaguely hoping Bucky might fall back asleep, but of course he didn't. Even super-soldiers need sleep, and it was a rough day for him, fuzzy and sad and exhausted. His therapy session wasn't bad, exactly, but it wasn't the best, and left him in a sad funk that meant even Nat couldn't coax him into a drive.

 

The next three nights were all the same; a few scant hours of deep sleep, followed by screaming nightmares, followed by blood and death every time he closed his eyes in the dark, long hours of the night. Bucky made Steve fall back asleep most of those nights; there was no sense in  _both_ of them being miserable. “I'll wake you up with a blowjob?” he tried to promise one night, and Steve huffed at him. He couldn't get in the mood enough to even kiss his guy awake the next morning, so it was a dumb promise anyways, not that Steve minded, because Steve was a moron who didn't know any better.

Bucky's eyes felt like sand, and his whole body was somehow itchy. He hadn't slept more than three hours a night for almost a week running, and fuck, what he wouldn't give for real rest.

 

He bolted upright, still only half-awake, heart pounding. Cold. Why was everything always so fucking  _cold_ in his nightmares? He had missions in warm places, but he swore they still felt cold. He remembered  ice , a kolkhoz, breath visible in the air. Sun through trees, his handler's neck spurting blood, and his hands crushing a windpipe before he had enough time to get his guns.

“Bucky?” Steve yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Aw, fuck.”

“I made it past midnight this time,” Bucky said grimly. “Four whole hours.”

“Oh, Buck,” Steve said, and sat up, and when Bucky gave the nod, gathered him into his arms. “Shit. Fuck. Maybe I should knock you out,” he said, not really kidding.

“My luck, I'd have a nightmare and not wake up. Or fuckin' get a brain clot...” Bucky shut up real fast. He was pretty attached to life, to be honest, and that's nothing on how attached _Steve_ was to _Bucky_ being alive.

Steve grunted, and it was a sign of how rough he felt that he didn't say anything else, just hugged Bucky hard enough to hurt.

They had learned to at least try, in these nights. To make a warm mug of milk with nutmeg and cardamom, sweet spicy smells filling the kitchen. Steve added a dollop of rum to each mug, because why not, and they went out to the little veranda that came off of their room.

They plopped right down on the edge, feet in the sand, and leaned together, sipped the warm milk and watched the night desert. It was dead quiet all the way out here, and all the stars in the universe wheeled overhead. Bucky, reluctantly, loved it. (He would love it more without nightmares and lost sleep and worry over Steve losing sleep too, of course.)

“I want to live,” Bucky said, and paused, blowing on his steaming drink. “I mean, I think you know that. But I just wanted to make sure you knew.”

“Thanks,” Steve said, and paused himself. “I didn't want to, for a long time. It sucked,” he added, somewhat unnecessarily.

“I know,” Bucky said. “I mean, I know you didn't want to. And that it sucked.” He sipped, and watched the desert. “Why'd you stop? Wanting to die, I mean.”

Steve lifted one shoulder. “Sometimes I don't know that I did,” he admitted. “Others....I dunno. You. Sam. Buying weird sugary coffee. Wanting to see the next Star Wars movie. Life gets in around the edges, y'know?”

“Tell me about it.” Life got in around the edges of Bucky's brain and body, both shattered then healed. People to love and things to enjoy and wanting, all got in. He hadn't exactly _stopped_ them – hell, even when he was brainwashed, he was curious and wanted to know – but he hadn't worked at it, either. And it still happened.

And now he had a boyfriend and friends, a cell phone and an e-mail address. Hell, he had an  _attorney_ . Because life had got in around the edges when he wasn't looking.  
  
He had a _niece_ . Well, great-niece, and he toasted her with his mug, lifting it to the starry sky and sipping deep.

“Hey Steve,” he said. “When I'm free, what d'you want to do first?”

He looked over, alarmed when there was only silence for a few seconds too long. Did he say something wrong? He hadn't fucked up like this in _ages_ , why was Steve upset? Why was Steve not rattling off his list of all the best pizza places in New York City, and something about pho?  
  
Because Steve was looking down at the sand, grinning widely.

“What?” Bucky demanded. “ _What_?”

Steve looked over at him, starting to snicker. “I...I assume you mean  _after_ I nail you like a cheap door?” he asked, and started to crack up.

Bucky stared at him. Oh no. Oh no, Steve though he was  _funny_ .

“Steven Grant Rogers, that doesn't even make _sense_ ,” Bucky informed him, drained his mug, and set it aside to tackle Steve into the sand and scrub his hair until he stopped being quite so fucking pleased with himself.

Between the wrestling and the night sky and, soon, the ridiculous sunrise, Bucky didn't get to bed again that night. He was okay, though; yeah he was fuzzy and exhausted and felt like he'd gotten beaten up by a super-soldier (because he had), but life had got in around the edges, and he felt pretty fucking good about that. Sleep would come again, and he'd celebrate by passing out for sixteen hours straight, and then waking up with a blowjob, he decided. And then a shower. And then another blowjob.

But first, he and Steve needed to get some coffee and breakfast. They were too tired to do more than anything pretty perfunctory, but the coffee was hot and strong and a fuckton better than the stuff he drank growing up, so he'd take it.  
  
It was bitter and woke him up a little, which was probably for the best when he got a call from Bernie only halfway through his second cup. Steve was making toaster waffles, so Bucky kinda secretly hoped this would be quick.  
  
“Hi Bernie,” he said quietly, because if Steve knew his attorney is on the phone, there would have to be speakerphones and Drama and it was 7 fucking AM. In Nevada. Bucky wasn't sure, but he felt like the Nevada part made this extra-unacceptable somehow.

“Bucky, your case was dismissed. There won't even be a trial.”  
  
“What?” Bucky fumbled a little with his coffee mug. Was he...going to jail, then? Without a trial?

“Put me on speaker,” Bernie said, and her voice was kind, and Bucky was...kinda scared by that? But he put her on speaker, and Steve was there with a speed that was also frankly concerning.

“Dismissal. No trial. Bucky is free,” Bernie said, because she has more sense than any of them.

“Oh,” Bucky said, and blinked, not sure when his blood turned to champagne.

“Never doubted for a moment,” Steve said, his grin something to behold. “Bernie, you're a genius.”

She snorted. “This wasn't even my hardest case. You okay there, Barnes?”

“Yes,” Bucky said distantly, and shook himself. His first movement as a free man since the forties. “I'm sorry, Bernie. Thank you. Thank you so much. I can't repay you for this, ever.”

“My billing company says otherwise,” Bernie said, and thank God too, because it gave them both an excuse to laugh.

“Consider it paid, then,” Bucky said, trying for charming. Well, at least he managed human, and he could reply when she bid them goodbye.

Bernie hung up on them, probably in some disgust, and Bucky and Steve looked at each other.

“So,” Bucky said. “So, that's it.”

“That's it,” Steve said. 

Bucky considered France. Then was the Big House, after that his cabin in the wilderness, and now the Nevada playboy mansion. And then...Brooklyn. That would be next. And after that, anything he damn well pleased.

“Oh,” Bucky said softly, and looked at Steve. “Let's go home.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! And I am...kinda sad, actually. I loved writing this story, but it feels good to be done with Bucky's story. (In this universe, at least.)

“Do we really want to buy?” Bucky asked, looking up from his laptop. 

“Why not?” Steve asked, from where he was making dinner. He was not allowed to help look for real estate.

Bucky pondered this. “We'll be the first people in either of our families to own property in this country,” he said suddenly. “Shit. Wow.”

“Seriously?” Steve asked.

“Uh huh. I checked with Tati.” Bucky chewed his lip. It didn't matter if they wanted to move and sold the house and it had lost value, or if the fuckin' thing burned to the ground. They had enough, either alone or between the two of them. And it didn't matter that he was tying himself down. One, he was already tied to Steve, and frankly a house was a lot easier than Steve on many days. Two...he was allowed. He could tie himself down. He didn't even need to make a go bag.

Okay, they'd have go bags. But just so they felt better. A house was okay.

Bucky started e-mailing realtors.

 

***

 

“Whoever said money couldn't buy happiness was lying,” Steve informed the empty living room, after the closed and locked the front door.  
  
Bucky snorted. “That's just the ruling class trying to keep the proletariat down, and you know it.” He turned around, taking in the wood floors that would need refinishing, and the fireplace that didn't. It was theirs; their own brownstone, rambling and with a new roof and an old water heater.

Money bought the house, and bought it  _quickly_ , and Bucky guessed the speed was at least half of what made them so happy. And the other half was the house, and that it was theirs. It needed paint, and other little touches here and there, and they needed to do some serious furniture shopping, but they owned a house.

Bucky marveled over it, as Steve put the keys firmly on the mantle, and just as firmly gathered Bucky up for a kiss, since he was that kind of romantic.

 

* * *

 

“Don't forget this,” Bucky said, smirking. He held out the shield, of course.

“Bite my entire ass,” Steve told him. He took the shield, of course, slinging it onto his back.

Bucky watched him head out, taking a moment for himself to admire how Steve's ass looked in his uniform. Besides, if he focused on being kind of dirty-minded, he couldn't stress. Or miss the feel of a gun in his hands. Or  _not_ miss it, which was sometimes kind of worse, somehow. He didn't miss shooting things one bit, thank you. 

Funny how life happened – Steve was born to beat up the bad guys. Bucky had kind of...tipped into it. First to defend Steve, then to fight Nazis. Now...more Nazis, actually, he thought sourly, settling down behind the bank of monitors. He'd meditate more on the whole accidental-hero/anti-hero thing another time. Or not.

One of the best things about his life now was that he didn't  _have_ to pore over every single thought that drifted through his mind.

Bucky kept the video feeds of the fight going on the outermost of his monitors, and concentrated on coordinating dispatch, clearing streets for rescue vehicles. He fell into the web of tension and release, finding that cool, calm place he'd always found with a sniper rifle. Release pressure  _here_ and people can flow  _there_ .

He noticed a monitor and frowned.  _People_ flow there, not superheroes. “Rogers, turn around and go one block west, there's medics coming up that road.”

“Acknowledged, Barnes.” He watched Steve turn, and miracle of miracles, obey him.

“You good, Buck?” Almost too low to be heard.

“Stop fuckin' distracting me and go do your job,” Bucky told him.

“Yessir,” Steve said, in his most serious-bastard-behaving-for-the-brass voice. Bucky was gonna kick his ass later, but right now, he had work to do, and he got to it.

 

* * *

 

“You're sure...never mind,” Bucky said. “You're sure.”

“I'm sure,” Steve reminded him, turning into the drive. The trees were well-trimmed and the dirt road easy to navigate, smooth as any asphalt.

Bucky sat very still in the passenger seat. He normally did not encourage Steve in this whole driving thing, but he also knew he'd be an  _even shittier_ driver right now. Because this was worse than the first time he'd walked down a city street as a free man. (It was New York, whatthefuckever, John Gotti had gone to baseball games all the time, even if someone recognized him they'd have the good manners to  _ignore_ him, so basically he'd surprised no one by taking to a busy city pretty well.) It was worse than the check he'd written to buy a house. And it was worse than when Steve had gone into battle that first time, when they weren't totally sure any of this would work out for them.

Bucky Barnes was going back to the house where he'd recovered, and he was absolutely terrified about it.

So Steve guided them up the smooth, wide driveway, and okay, that was a little hopeful – the land was welcoming them back, so that was good. And he'd e-mailed all the women, because he was an Adult who was Not A Giant Chicken, which had been nerve-wracking and horrible, but he's survived it.

Also Tati sent him funny, dumb memes like every day now.

Steve finally pulled up, shifted into park, and turned the car off, so Bucky had to stop pretending that Steve's driving was why he was breathing so deeply. “They invited us,” Steve reminded him.

“Uh huh.” Bucky looked up at the house. He didn't remember being brought here, of course; he was unconscious. Hell, he was mostly dead. But this had been the first step. (And the second, and third, and a whole lot more after that, until everything had gone to hell.) And now he was him, and he was here, and it was easier than he thought to open the car door and get out.

He started walking to the front door, and even before he was halfway there, he could see it opening, and see their friends running out to meet him.  



End file.
